while listening to carrie underwood's "what can i say"

Wind gathers speed and careens through the canyon,
Whips my hair and plasters it on my sticky, sweaty face,
Wildly slaps my cheeks and pulls me to the right.
While I finger the buttons on my iPod
We don't talk, don't acknowledge one another's presence.
Walk slowly. Wait for the right moment to say the right thing.
Wind gathers speed.

the candle that flickers last

The candle that flickers last lights the room
in dimness. Creepers lurk in quiet corners,
down empty halls, through crimson curtains,
muffling and hiding whispering warners.

The candle that flickers last breathes a sigh,
heats the skin that devils prick.
But glowing embers can't hid this flame
that floats lonely atop wax and wick.

The candle that flickers last goes out.
Ghostly fibers of smoke rise,
cobalt threads swirl to the ceiling
and enhance the disguise.

Shattered shards of glass.
Dark dispersing fast.
Iridescent mask.

appropriate uses for washer fluid

Canadian bacon sizzles in grease on the stove.
Mangos ripen as we speak, in delectable salsa on the table.
Powdered sugar makes Mom sneeze into the pie.
We'll still eat it.
Mom calls us to dinner.

An absent car.
A garage floor of old oil.
Dad's fixing the jalopy again.
Backfires, toot-toots of horns, screeching breaks--
and the loud rumble of the garage door closing.

I call Dad in to eat,
but he doesn't answer.
Out on the porch I bellow to him,
but he doesn't answer.
I stomp to the garage
and rap on the dented metal,
but he doesn't answer.

"Daddy?"
He looks up from the hood
with grease on his face
and rusty screws between his teeth.
In his hand is a bottle of green liquid.
"Don't want to get down the road
with no way to clean the windshield."

Impatient huffs, hungry gurgles, and rolling eyes
don't make him hurry any faster.

unshared poem

Last year at the end of the semester I wrote this poem. I refer to some of my favorite poems that I studied quite thoroughly in my poetry class: "Lake Isle of Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats, "The Tyger" by William Blake, "Carrion Comfort" by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold. I know the title is not very creative, but I used the date as a temporary title, but it just kind of stuck. And one thing I've learned about writing is to never impose my own ideas on my writing. I know that sounds silly, but it is so true. Check the sidebar if you would like to read the four "reference poems.""13 December 2007" by Lindsey Kay
I will arise now from the heaps of sultry bodies
Melting, puddling, sinking into one soggy mass.
I will shed the dark cloak that masks my face.
I will shatter the glass that stares back,
Hurt it like it hurts me.
I will tip the goblet of bitter hate back into the pool
Of dissatisfaction.
No more will I answer to the mistress who beckons,
“Come, child, come play. Come play with the Tyger.”
Nor will I kneel beside the carrion and weep,
Nor gaze downward to the deep and misty shadows of the sea.
But I will look on, on to a gold-crested cloud
And there rest for a day
Before turning back to face what stands proudly before me.
I will pull from the ashes my heavy-laden feet
And trample the garish of vain piety.
I will not lie on a blanket and wait
While pale, clammy hands claw my face.
I will not let contentment succor my pain.
I will move on from here, leaving behind the body
That joined the masses to begin with.
She has no place next to me.
A phoenix has risen time and time again
And each time quicker than the time before.