Random Friday: Poetry

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Today I have the honor of sharing some amazing poetry written by some of my peers. I've had various creative writing classes with all of these ladies, and I greatly admire their ability to convey imagery and emotions through words.

Cathedrals

Virginia

by Joanna H.

I have seen pictures of cathedrals.

Artists painted between beams

that arch with round ceilings

meant to convey Christ's ascent.

The remnants are ribs of wood and stone.

Church ceilings are silent,

creaking like birds that sing

from the top branches of fir trees.

The ceilings trap prayers,

holding them like clouds

heavy with life giving rain,

blessing the holy spaces

with messages from God.

I have traveled between mountains.

God's fingers clawed up earth

ending with peaks like arrows

pointing to heaven.

The remnants of work

are the ribs of hard ground

now covered in evergreens.

My eyes have followed the cresting trees

up to an eternal sky.

Between pews I have looked

up to ceilings that beckon

experience and imagination of ascension.

Dances

by Caroline G.

Rhythm flies from pointed feet,

A thousand shoes, one body, striking the floor

in unison.

Breathtaking display.

Clammy hands brush rented tux.

Puberty balks with fear. The clean cafeteria floor

or punch bowl--

dilemma of youth.

Dazzling girl in long white gown

clutches daddy's hand in final twirl of innocence.

He waits on the side,

her new partner.

Liquor flows through heavy toes,

beating raucous time for bearded men and big breasted women,

laughing in the dark,

losing themselves.

Figures leap like the smoking flame.

Smooth bodies and headdresses flicker in shadows,

chasing demons.

Native worship.

Lonely couple on lonely stage

pray for perfection with every twist, lift, and kick.

No longer a pastime.

Work of joy.

My dress swirls around clumsy feet.

Laughing, ignoring instruction, I spin like a sprite.

My way.

Energy of fancy.

Not Included on My Resume

by Stephanie L.

I once stood still long enough

for a butterfly to land on my nose, 

and my brother snapped a picture.

I'm trying to teach myself

how to play the mandolin.

In ninth grade, I spent most of my lunchtime

talking to the librarian.

I am an expert at making

French braids and friendship bracelets.

Every August, I enter my tomatoes

in the county fair.

They rarely earn ribbons.

I am the youngest member of the church choir.

The second youngest is 64.

I am usually well-liked

by children and animals.

I was the one who stayed up until 3 a.m.,

finishing the group project

the night before it was due.

After Dinner

by Elise J.

I can see you walking to the car

from our window by the sink, where I have dishes to wash.

I look down and pick up the sponge, run the tap,

watch my hand guide it under the water.

Each pore stretches under the force, making room for everything they've given,

the water almost forcing them to expand at first.

The sponge relaxes once there's enough water.

At a glance up, I see you rummage

through your pockets for your keys, staring fixedly at nothing.

When you find them and your face softens, I glance back down.

The sponge gets heavier in my hand as it steadily fills,

swelling larger, larger, larger. It darkens

as the water makes itself a part of the sponge,

like it's always been a part of it, like water and sponge are the same.

I look out the window

when there is too much flow for the sponge to hold,

see your half smile through your car window, see your little "I'll be back" wave

as my hand finally dampens.

I feel a cool, smooth pressure on my ring finger

as I squeeze the water out of the sponge, smile back, nod,

then look back down and scrub the plate that I've soaked,

starting to clean.