I've been a minor poet all my life. You don't have to like them, but some of them are here.
Not all are about Animorphs. In fact, none of them (so far) are about Animorphs. Some DO relate somewhat, though. I'm an Ani-fan, and this is my Art.
"Swan Song" Sestina (a poetic form that I use a lot)
The idea for this began with a fairy tale about a "swan maiden" and the ballet Swan Lake, as well as a long rain we had a few years back.
----
I drift on the silent thoughts of night,
and a soft sea wind whispers
on my brow, telling me deep secrets
of another world beneath this one.
I make no demands on the peaceful
void, and it welcomes me with open arms.
I wake with a shiver, my arms
prickle at the chill of the night.
All around me is deceptively peaceful,
you would never notice how the ocean whispers,
telling me that I am the only one
who can read its dark secrets.
In the water there are no secrets.
There is only the clear, dark water on my arms--
or are they wings? They can be either one,
you know. When all is still at night,
my window opens, and I heed the whispers.
I will fly away while all is peaceful.
The dark water is like glass--peaceful
as the sky above, but with more secrets.
Soft, white feathers slowly whisper
down my back, across my face, up my arms,
and I raise my wings to the night,
triumphantly calling to no one.
I was not always the only one
who soared the skies in the peaceful
hours of the moonless night.
All the rerst have vanished with their secrets,
never again to lift their arms
to the ocean winds as they whisper.
A sad, sweet memory whispers
in my mind, of one
who walked with me, arm in arm,
while the horizon was peaceful,
and who begged to know my secrets.
We parted forever tonight.
Sweet, silent night, leave me to whisper
my secrets to the one
who lies, cold and peaceful, in my arms.
---
A Riddle to Myself
These started as lyrics to a tune I was making up. They became a poem.
---
I am the moon in the sky,
a blazing darkness that
eclipses the sun.
I am the stars
on a moonless night,
a blinding light
where there was none.
---
Studies in a Lyric Soul
These are pieces that I wrote when I was analyzing my brain. They speak more about me and what I want than any other works of mine. They are many and far between.
----
I.
Always in such a rush, girl.
Why do you hurry so?
Where must you go, to be driven forth,
like shadow fleeing the sun?
Hardly has the day begun, ere you are
rushing forward, like a swan from the lake
on strong white wings at dawn.
Why do you run?
So they ask me, and I say to them,
There is no hurry,
but I am thinking,
I do not run.
I Fly.
---
II.
In my mind I am in a broad, green meadow
full of wildflowers, paved in soft young grass.
I take off my shoes and lay them aside.
The sun is soft and warm on my shoulders,
and a gentle west wind sighs, lifting my hair from my neck.
I close my eyes and listen, waiting.
Finally, I hear it behind me: the soft, stealthy tread
of a fox.
I greet him with silence and a smile.
He looks me in the eye, too clever by half.
He knows why I am here, and he laughs at me,
high and wild and fearless,
this bright-eyed denizen of shadows and the forest that surrounds us.
Off like a shot, oh how he flies, fleet-footed
and utterly free.
I run with him, but he passes me easily.
I watch him go, and I laugh with him,
high and wild and fearless and free.
---
III.
A microcosm, self-contained, observant of the outer world,
Seeking greater knowledge beyond the common road
head in the clouds, feet on the ground, looking inward for a simple truth.
Every action, with a purpose in mind, yet free of any obvious motives.
Breaking the silence when it serves the goal,
reading, always reading, all to learn more.
One and alone, but never lonely, only occasionally seeking outside company.
Knowledge the first, the highest pursuit, evermore, even before happiness.
Calm without serenity, silence and stillness without peace,
always actively pursuing the goal, appearing motionless,
mentally aware and emotionally reserved, though not indifferent.
Purposefully standing outside the fence, but only to watch and know the world, even if it means existing outside it, learning without living, like living without learning, is meaningless.
Still waters coceal turbulent depths, and silence is not peace.
---
IV.
Watching for the falling sky
while idly by the frost-wind flies,
trees a'fire with beads of ice,
pale and glistening, casting light.
Sings a memory of early autumn's sun,
deep in the afternoon, the air not yet
bitten by evening's chill.
The grass of my field is golden-edged,
waving and driting on the soft wind.
The light floats on my field,
a sunset on a mirror lake, so smoothly the
gilt-and-shadowed blades glide back and forth.
The light so warm, so inviting, it says
"dance on me. I am perfect and endless,
eternity in an instant. Infinity lies
within." Then night consumes the illusion, and all is still.
A moment more do I linger at the window,
watching silent whorls of snow below me,
Hoping that the warmth of dawn is not
too long returning.
---
Feel free to comment, but keep it friendly.
By the way: once I set my work to paper, the words are already EXACTLY how I want them.
I'll accept criticism, but I never edit. It ruins the original emotion of the piece, and it betrays the thoughts that went into it.
---
Shard of Night
(A study of a lyric soul, written under the pseudonym "Belle Newburg")
---
V.
My heart is at peace,
There is a stillness, like ice
in my veins, that silences
the flurry of thoughts
in my mind.
I breathe calmly and evenly,
restful and serene.
Nothing can touch me.
I am ice; I am glass.
I will not melt or shatter.
Clear and hard and cold and bright,
I radiate cold and bend the light.
Unshaken, I walk through the night.
I fly through the storm,
I dance on the sky.
The silent stars call to me,
and the night is mine.
---
Lunchtime Observations
(Our school has a beautifully landscaped courtyard, visible at lunch through windows. Every word here is true.)
I watch the rain fall on the courtyard.
Two yellow poplars stand there, twins perfectly straight and tall.
Behind and between them, a red maple spreads low and broad and strong, so solid in its wide-reaching stance, embracing the clearing in deep shade.
Isolated and offset, a Japanese maple stands, small and glorious, each leaf delicate and bright red, even in summer.
The little maple cannot touch the others, but it outshines them in its miniature grace.
---
Bragi (another form I sometimes use.)
Oh, the places I've flown!
When I play the piano I
sing with my hands. Nothing else can compare
to that feeling of being light as air,
a cloud tossed in the wide, blue sky,
where nothing holds me down.
A symphony calls me. I take the dare.
It's a great thing I cannot deny:
The greatest joy I've know,
to raze the sky alone
on blazing white wings, reaching high.
The world falls behind me. I do not care.
---
Lost Soul Sestina
It was formerly believed by sailors that Albatrosses, Terns, Petrels, and Shearwaters were souls lost at sea.
I love the ambiguity of the ending, and this is one of my favorite works, whether or not it is really any good.
---
As I turn and face the fading light
of the setting sun, I notice
a single pale white tern,
floating high like a ghost
on the knife edge of the wind,
dancing on the approaching storm.
I boldly walk out into the storm,
buffetted by the salty rain. The light
and thunder herald the mighty wind,
ready to toss me about, never noticing
the pale, graceful, feathered ghost,
high over head, the little tern.
My mind drifts like the wandering tern.
My thoughts swirl like an ocean storm.
I wander empty halls, a ghost
in a white dress, showered with light
and making no effort to notice
the deadly force of the wind.
A high scream rips out of the wind,
and there, injured, lies the tern,
his body damaged by this tempest. I notice
his haggard feathers, veteran of a hundred storms
worse than this one. His body is so light,
It is as if I carry a ghost.
I hurry indoors with my little ghost.
The windows flap in protest of the iwnd.
I close them and quickly light
the storm lantern. The tern
has weathered his last storm.
He will not fly again, but he doesn't notice.
I carry him to the table, and I notice
a red drop at his throat. Like the chains of a ghost,
My home rattles in the ocean storm.
Savaged by the vicious wind,
it is battered and broken like the tern.
I hold him and weep in the shaking light.
His body is so frail and light, I hardly notice
that the tern is no longer breathing. "Holy Ghost",
I pray, "send a gentler wind. Save this lost soul from the storm."
---
