Detached

Shedding my pink-white skin
Silencing the voice from within
Putting on a different shoe
Looking through another view
I cannot be myself
So I put me aside...on a dusty shelf

I shed my pink-white skin
So maybe... possibly you will let me in?

Unremarkable the Poem

After really reflecting on my comment about myself being rootless, I scribbled down a poem. I know this would never pass in the writing class I am taking as it does not open with a "zinger" the first and the last lines do not juxapose, and basically, the poem lacks everything that makes a poem. I am fine with that because the Poem, is really be raging against... against what? What am I raging against? I really don't know. I hope you take the time to read it, as it is the longest poem I have ever written and you can help me out in my quest....


Unremarkable

I am just an average girl
Middle class struggles with uncelebrated accomplishments
I live among sisters like J-Lo and Queen LaTiffa
But I am in their shadows.
Shadows. Shadows. Shadows

My granddaddies were not oppressors
While slave were being traded and Mesitzo were being raped,
They fought for their clans and watched
As their kilts were burned and their castles under seiged
They did not forget how to weave the patterns of their tarragons.
They did not forget. Not Forget. Forget

My Daddies were average men,
Broken by their war and mind-games.
They disappeared too soon: overworked, over drugged, over-whelmed
Under-appreciated, undermined, under supported, under achieving.
They taught me about Honour. Hard Work. HARD WORK,Hardwork .
Work ethic that killed them and child support cheques never paid.
Never paid. Never. Paid. Ne.ver. Paid.

My Mama? Who is she?
The first woman janitor of the state hospital.
All she conquered was stolen:
By children, by men, by the system, by Haters, by society’s boxes.
Her talents boxed up and shipped away to another foreign place.
Until all she wants to do is stay home, in her little house,
And yell at the neighbor-men for not feeding their kids.
Feed your kids. YOUR Kids. Kids.

I wish the men in my life were Denzel Washingtons or even Jackie Chans
With stubborn, intelligent jaws, marked by friendly, shy grins.
Or ancient-artists with modern twist.
Exposed sacred secrets married with humour.

Instead my brothers are starved victorious academic boys.
Bitter by he-struggles.
And Handsome constructions workers hating the brothers from across the borders
Claims they are stealing his job, robbing his pay.
Together they laugh like the haters who always Hate
And never win.
Never win. Never win. Never. Win.

So here I am.
My blue eyes hurt in the tropical sun.
If I don’t study hard, I’ll lose my scholarship.
I have to teach a litter of little haters because I have to have a job.
Pay the rent, keep Mama from starving.
But the world thinks I am a volunteer.
Ask of me for the handouts that I want but never ask for.
They yank when they “speak” to me, while I want to chat.
Kriolized be mi tongue.
I learned not to hate the haters or the brothers
But I war daily against the game.
Against the game, the game. Against. The. Game.

Pink Silk Pajamas

I was given a pair of Pink Silk Pajama Bottoms the other day. Now that I have my own pair, I advocate that every human being have their very own pair. I am not such about the tops, but loose fitting shiny silk light pink pajama pants at are slightly too long are a must for any creative individual. Let me explain.

I got home late from school last night. It was around 10 o'clock. It was cool and I had energy to do some stuff, but my house guest were sound asleep in the hall (living room, front room, whatever you call that thing), and I didn't want to disturb them. I so took a shower, then slipped on the long silk pajama pants with a flimsy cotton top. I locked myself into my little after thought room to the back of my house. As I cleaned my room and read about Transitional Bilingualism, I transformed worlds. First, I was a Arabian Princess imprisoned in a harem of an wicked Sheik. Then, I fluffed all my pillows and became a genie trapped in a bottle, waiting for someone to let me out. Some time between dusting my shelves and going a silly genie dance (how do genies dance anyway?), I feel a sleep. This morning I woke up in a wonder world. I was arch duchess Elizabeth the III, well mannered and admired by the world. Instead of reading about Transitional Bilingualism, I felt Annish so I I picked Anne of Avonlea and read a few chapter. I was refreshed and reminded of my youthful visions and ideals.

Getting ready for school I could step out of the fantasy world that I molded. Then the thought struck me.... maybe I am not Annish. Maybe, I am more like Dianna, Anne's comrade. Anne can step out of Dreamworld into reality easily. Dianna couldn't. That is why should stopped day dreaming, she couldn't control it and got into trouble when she was little. I got sort of blue thinking this thought. Bummer. But then I got cheered up when I realized that I am only Diana next to Frieda Friesen. She is the real Anne. Friedy even has the red hair. I am the short pudgy dark hark buddy.

That thought made me feel better. Frieda should be home any day any time now. She has been in Canada for over a year and is on the road coming back. She is probably in Mexico now which means she should be back before the weekend. I really miss her and I think I am going to take the weekend off to visit her, if she isn't too overwhelmed. She is part of a family of ten plus, and she has a lot of people to greet.

I should wait for her little sister's graduation this weekend. But I will see. I love drama, and drama in front of people is not always nice.

The Poem never graded

OK, So I didn't sit the CAPE Exam that I was preparing for. I am a little upset that I didn't take it, but it was either miss CAPE, or miss the BSM. BSM had priority over CAPE even though I invested a lot in it until now.

(If you can figure out what I am talking about.... I will give you a prize)

Anyway, here is the poem that I had planned to include in my CAPE portfolio. I hope you like it.

Teacher, who do you want me to be?
" A man, fit to serve society"

To be a "man":

You tell me to be brave
But any time I make risks
You demand I behave

You tell me to be strong
But any time I play rough
You insist I am wrong

You tell me to act gentle and kindly
But when my heart is touched,
You declare that I am being a sissy

You tell me to lead others,
But whenever I use my voice,
You give honour to my weaker brothers,

You tell me to loving and passionate,
But when I find sweet pleasure,
You call me effeminate,

You tell me to be understanding,
But how can I be?
If you never understood me?

Canstruction

I know I might be overwhelming you with posts, but I love this picture so much that I have to post it and post it NOW. It was created by UC (University of California) students for a fund raiser. I personally love it. (It was made entirely from cans of canned goods by the way).

Fairy Book Poem #1

I have thought about this long and hard... Here is a sample of my Fairy Book.

June 2004
A word or thought?
Joy Unspoken or sorrow revealed?
A sin found out or virtue hid?
Compromise or hope; what are you?

The calm after a storm,
Sweeping up shattered pieces,
A pause to recollect
Or excuse to rush more?

What is it that I feel?

I found it!

When I was a teenager a Sarah Wilkerson gave me a beautiful note book. It had a girlish covered with a blend of pink and purple flowers and photos of naked babies turned into fairies. At first I was not sure what to do with it. Then suddenly it all made sense. I was in second form, away from home, and battling with depression during that time. It was that year that I began to write about how I felt. It was also the year that I discovered that God really did love me (although that is another story). From that year, until the year after I graduated from high school I wrote in my book. Some pages were tore out, and some were used by my classmates to write notes in (we didn't have a yearbook so when we graduated we got "autograph books" I didn't get one, so I used my treasure book instead). I lost my book when moving from Santa Elena to San Ignacio and I have been worried about it ever since (2 years now). Then, last night, I got the inspiration to check the bulky "hope chest" (you have to know my family to understand that one). At the bottom, underneath the dishes and other nuptial stuff, was my fairy book. I found it! It was like finding a long lost friend, or even better, a piece of my soul that was lost through a drug called Busy Life.

Don't be surprised if one of my childish writings finds its way on my blog. Be warned, they are crude and unpolished. Many of them only sing for me.

Funny though. Now purple is my favourite colour, and I think fairies are pretty neat, for what they symbolize.

Time to see the world

I wrote this poem. My writing mentor says it seems forced, but it is as natural as I can be. Here, World, you can have one of my poems... be kind to it. Let me know what you think, and how I can improve. You don't have to kind to me. I need to improve as a poem mother.

Edwin

11-January-2007

Seed fallen down,

Dead to the World

Planted in the Ground

In full Brightness you shine

No longer do you fight

'Though in your plantedness we mourn

We can look and have hope

News lives will be born.

We trust that you lived a sacrifice

Redeemed all your life

Now your reward, you realize