Tag Archives: high school

Petulant Achilles

I sigh, putting away my ragged paperback of the Iliad.

There is a black winged moth, resting upon a lily pad.

The calming pool in the courtyard, blooming water lilies.

Eerie beauty in those white flowers, not petulant Achilles.

I think of Felicity, and how she’ll come sit with me, in an hour.

I am flowering ivy in the spring, and she is my white lattice bower.

A fluffy and fuzzy bumble bee crawls into a flower, legs all dusty yellow

Nectar is sweet, and intoxicating, brings blooms, fruit, orange tangelo.

The choir I hear through an open door, sing a piece set to a Psalm.

Comfort in touching God, music, prayer, sweetness of Felicity’s lip balm.

How do we sing of The Lord in a strange land; Earth is all, to us, Strange.

The Spirit, and agape, we make a place here, a tabernacle we momentarily arrange.

For an hour after classes, Felicity and I will hold hands, talk, gently kiss, giggle, blush.

First of spring, Easter here soon, He rises. I hear Him in her voice, and sing thrush.

Sometimes we are silent, and the wind is cool, and the bright, and we are content.

In these quiet, pure moments we are more than flesh, the veil between heaven rent.

Guiding Glow

Emma rides in the back of the school bus, school trip to Nashville.

High school is the same, but even worse. It’s snowing, though March.

Her head rests against the cool glass, the snowflakes caught in passing

streetlamps and store fronts, leaving school at 6 AM, before the sun.

Her headphones play something lush and enveloping, a warm aural hug.

The others are either sleeping or laughing and talking, fitting like rivets.

She looks at the snow, which won’t be much, but offers a dream right now.

She wants to be a part of what’s going on. She’s afraid of losing herself, too.

Three hours on the highway, and her MP3 player won’t last that long.

There’s a book in her knapsack, about a darker world, more like home.

The clouds hide the stars, and the moon, which is her guiding glow in the dark.

There’ll all having fun, and it looks so inviting, but they’d wipe away her face.

Lustful, Youthful, Perdition

An old picture, 1995, sophomore year.

She is in a lacey and big, white dress,

with black stockings and Converse sneakers.

Her light brown hair is a short, spiky, pixie cut.

Her dark eyes have the fire of lustful, youthful, perdition.

Her lips pale, unadorned, and set against the world.

That long ago afternoon, that first warm, bright day,

March, on her birthday, skipping school to have fun.

Catching a movie. Walk and talking and scheming.

The park, with only us, and a mother and her toddler,

far away. We sat by the creek, passed cigarettes.

Ate some snacks we brought in my backpack.

Just a simple day, with a girl I loved, without a care.

The air and the sun and the sky were weightless.

School, and that we’d have to return tomorrow, not on us.

Driving me home, a song played that said all I felt for her.

She was not in love with me, but I was honored to be with her,

to be her friend, to share a day like that, floating to the sky.

All these old feelings coming back, all these bittersweet hurts.

Hadn’t thought of her in so long, she who was the queen of my hopes.

I don’t know how it all turned out for her. Where she is now.

I look at the picture, from when everything was on fire and bright,

when it all seemed possible and so close, and magic was in every spring,

and all you needed was love, and a kiss, to open the gate to heaven.

Black, Persian Curls

I dreamed of her, with her head of black, Persian curls,
and her dusky and warm skin, not like the other girls.

The snow on the mountains seem so distant in spring.
I dreamed of kissing jasmine lips, of giving her a ring.

She was a stranger from across a bright, blue sea.
She wore some other face, but I did not turn from she.

On a spring afternoon we talked by the soccer field.
The sun so bright in our magic, left a dream unhealed.

And she spun the words of countries long past.
Of golden ships with silver angels on their mast.

Once, I held her hand, as stars peaked through twilight.
Her love, her dreaming angel eyes, where my delight.

In my dreams it is spring again, and we are young.
There, only there, did I kiss her as my wife, as bells rung.

Hopes and Dreams

Hopes and Dreams

I remember waking up early on summer mornings, when the day was still cool
and the light still soft. Every summer Hope would tend her own garden in her
backyard. She would be up early ever morning, sometimes before first light,
to work in it. And while she worked, she would sing. I would open my window
the night before when I went to bed just so I could wake to her sweet
singing. I’d lay in bed, wrapped in my sheets, and listen. She was always
there, like the morning birds, their song saying that the night was over and
another day was here. Eventually my mother would call me down for breakfast
and I’d get up and ready and dressed and go down stairs to eat, though I
would never want to leave before she was done. I would always go when called

I’d see her at church. I’d see her walking with her family; mom and dad and
sisters Faith and Charity on the tree lined sidewalk. Hope and her sisters
where not like most other kids. Me and my brothers would goof off and horse
around in the back seat of the family car as we drove the short way to
church. Often, during the service we’d let our minds wander, the words of
the preacher becoming a soft drone. Hope and Faith and Charity however
always acted so reserved and quiet. They never seemed to play the fool like
we did. During the sermon they always sat straight up, eyes on the preacher.
You knew no word was passing them by.

I’d pass by Hope’s house sometimes in the early evening, heading back from
the park or woods where me and my friends would play. She’d be sitting by
herself under a big old tree in her front yard. Her eyes would sometimes be
closed, and only her long brown hair stirred in the gentle breeze. Other
times her eyes would be open, and it would be as if she were seeing
everything in the twilight; the ants climbing the blades of grass, the
insects buzzing through the air and the bats that would swoop down to devour
them. It’s was if, like her God, she saw everthything all at once, and like
her God she lived all of it without reservation. We lived on the same street
in the same neighborhood in the same city, but we were really from two
different worlds. We were aliens to each other.

I remember the Valentine’s Day of my eigth grade year. I was in middle
school, and that day was just another school day unless you had a boy or
girl friend. No more parties for us where we exchanged pre-bought cards in
little envolopes, to be but in shoe boxes we had spent the day before
decorating. No, it was just another day. I had no one I was dating at the
time, so I wasn’t expecting any presents or cards. But Hope surprised me.
After the last class of the day I was headed to my locker, and I saw her
standing in front of it. She had her books hugged to her chest. She was
wearing a plain white dress. Her eyes were on her feet. Her long brown hair
fell over her face. I walked up to her.
“Hello.” I said.
She looked up at me. Her hair slid away from to reveal her pretty face. She
looked me in the eye. Her eyes were bright like stars, and as full of light.
Then she smiled, and I saw something in it I had never seen, something I
couldn’t put my finger on.
“Hello.” She replied, and held out her hand. In it was a homemade card with
my name on it. I took it from here, stunned by this turn of events. I didn’t
know she ever took notice of me.
“Happy Valentines Day.” She said, still looking me right in the eye, still
with that strange something in her smile. Then she turned away and walked
towards the buses. I watched her go for a moment and then opened the card.

We met once after that. She had stayed after school for chorus and was
waiting for her mom to come pick her up. I had also stayed late for
rehearsals for the school play. I saw her sitting in on one of the concrete
benches that lined the front of the school. She was looking up at the big
blue sky, not a care in the world. I just watched her for a moment, as
always amazed by her. She was so in tune to something I just couldn’t know,
some other better place. After a moment I walked to the bench where she was
sitting and sat down beside her. She looked away from the sky and then at
me, that strange smile once more on her lips.
“Hello.” She said.
“Beautiful day.”
“I know.”
“No.” She said. “You don’t.”
There was a sad look in her eye, as if she knew where she went I could not
“Thanks for the card.” I said.
“You’re very welcome.” She said, her eyes lighting up again.
“It was very nice of you to go through all the trouble of hand making it.”
I told her.
“Well, anyone can buy something. It takes real love to make something for
I must of blushed. She giggled, then looked back to the sky.
“It’s an amazing world, despite everything we do to it, or to each other.”
She said. “Do you ever think about it? What all we have here? What all we’ve
been given?”
“Uhhm, well…..” Was all I managed. Again that sad look was in her eye.
“Most people are like that. They don’t think about it.” She said, and then
turned back to me. She looked me in the eye, and I felt as if something
where piercing my heart. It was like she could see right into it.
“You’re like most of the people here. Thoughtless. Aimless. Wasting your
time.” She said. “Still though, there’s something more to you. No one else
sees it. Not even you see it. It’s there though, and it shines bright.”
Hope reached over and squeezed my hand. She never looked away from my eyes.
I felt at once hungry for and fearful of her gaze. Either way, I didn’t want
her to turn away from me. Then there was the honk of a car horn; her mom was
here. She stayed for a beat longer, then gathered up her book bag and then
got into the car. As they drove away, she looked back and gave me one last

I never got to talk to her like that again. Once again we went to our
seperate worlds. We grew up. We moved away. We lived our lives. Still, she
is often in my thoughts. I always hope she was right about me, that there is
a light shining bright within me. I often doubt how well I’ve lived up to
that. I’d like to think that if she could still see me she would be proud of
me. She is still in my heart. In that way she has never left me. Through all
the years and all that’s been done, part of me can still hear her singing.

It Burns Me Like Prey

I sit in a dark classroom, alone, with the rain on the window
and the colorless and brooding sky my sole comfort today.
I eat a ham sandwich soggy with mayonaise and pickle juice.
I try to make eye contact with an angel in the corner.
 “Will you be my friend?” I ask him. “Will you come see me?”
He won’t look at me, as he disinterestedly smokes a clove cigarette.
I sigh, finish the soggy sandwich, go on to the hatefully sweet juice.
Angels and high schoolers are stuck up assholes, no doubt about it.
 But the rain comes from a different god, a devil of sorrow and music,
and I try to remember that song I heard on the radio one time, so late.
Their laughter, like this juice, is hateful in it’s sweetness, agressively alright.
On my shoulder, one of The Fey tells me the name of the star that bore me.
 Soggy sandwich, gross juice, and cardboard chips finished, I throw away trash
and pick up my books, as weighty as the righteous arrogance that weighs down
the children of light, makes their light the darkest pit for the wild and left behind.
I look down, because I hate the animal shine in their eyes. It burns me like prey.
 A room waits, after all is finished today, and only sweet voices will find me there.

Cocoon of Thunder

It’s six thirty, on the bus, heading to high school.
I scrunch up to not be seen from the windows.
I scrunch up to not be a target in early morning dark.
I let myself, out of the corner of my eye, looking at the sky.
 Headphones. Always headphones. Always heavy metal music.
My cocoon of thunder, beating the bad thoughts to silence
and wrapping me in rage and force and the hallowed darkness.
The howl that lets me run through the forests of this death.
 The sun comes up, from dark purple to lurid red to clear blue.
The trees and houses and shitty convience stores lose their grace.
The day is coming out, another day in school is coming up.
Still, I run through ancient forests and howl at the naked stars.
 Still, I am free.

Cheerleaders Are Happy

Cheerleaders are happy, or so it seems,
On the sidelines, bright, the object of dreams.
Voices high and eyes starlit, such joy in autumn.
They own the world from the top to the bottom.
So it seems.
 Angels to me, as I sit in the stands, close and huddled.
Thinking of their kisses and all the boys they’ve cuddled.
Just to watch them on a night so cool and crystal clear.
I can’t believe the end is coming, that this is my senior year.
Life moves on.
 And where will we go, when we’ve been sent on into life?
Will I be happy, will I be chosen? Will they be a beloved wife?
Do they know the darkness that I’ve known, that in the night grows,
the sorrows of loneliness, the weight of air wrapped through their clothes?
Do they know?
 Those uniforms blue and white, so beautiful and so clean under lights.
The long sleeves that cover scars and the enchanting white of their tights.
I crafted angels wings for their backs in hopes that I might fly with them.
I crafted diadems for their heads that they might chose me on some whim.
But all are flesh, and broken.