Six Word Memoirs: My own philosophies

#10--Andes Mints on my Grandma's Table.
#9--I'm gonna worry, but not now.
#8--Lost a fight with a Goldfish.
#7--Prevent regret before you feel it.
#6--Seventeen, College Plans, time to fly.
#5--Car stopped at a forked road.
#4--Fingers raw from pressing six strings.
#3--Blue eyes, free skies, heavy sighs.
#2--One lane highway ahead, no exits.
#1--American Stars on my father's coffin.

Grand Theft Poetry: The Choice

Two choices diverged before me.

I listed the pros and cons for each upon my notebook page.

As I did so, I asked myself for the thousandth time;

"Why must I choose between the places that most determine my future?"

I blocked out the second option with one hand so I could focus solely on the first.

Soft music tantalized my thoughts as I soaked in the pros and cons, options like a melody careening through my mind--the notes smiling at me like an old friend.

I shook my head, trying to clear the temptation, before removing my hand from the right side of the page and planting it firmly on the left. The music stopped.

I gazed at the second.

Mountains unconquered, unfamiliarity, and promise lurked dangerously in this choice. It was not what my eager eye and willing ear wanted me to opt for.

With a large sigh, I took them both again; holding them like a balance beam, my mind the weighing lever teetering back and forth.

From which scale could I glean the most potential and success?

Only if you knew! My thoughts hackled mercilessly.

I took a breath, and unsteadily, crossed the second candidate into an incomprehensible mess of pen marks.

I reviewed my final choice, the first, with satisfaction and peace.

I had done well,

Perhaps this was the path more traveled by--but the best for me.

The one to make all the difference.

My Flaming Converse Shoes (Bad Poetry Revised)

I stroke the fabric of your withering all-star frame.

Red, red, red shoes.

And who'd have thought?
I had boring sneakers previously,

Before you.

And then I saw an ad, a colorful array of Converse shoes splayed out upon the page.

Lots of colors, but my eyes could only focus on one pair.

Red. Red. Red shoes.

I took a chance, stepping outside my normal fashion realms.

And suddenly I realized--

Who cared about my disproportionate bony toes,

When enveloped inside a stylish crimson case?
Adorned with

brand

new

fresh

white

laces. Beautiful!

Red, Red, Red shoes.

I remember you dangling beneath me,

On a roller-coaster inside the magic of Disneyland Park, soaring over the mickey mouse hats beneath us.

I remember afternoon walks after a rainy day, when the air is thick and fresh with moisture.

unreservedly we leapt into the joyous wet of a thick mud puddle.

Perhaps the best of all, was when I wore you on a date,

with that handsome young man;

I remember you taking me out on the dance floor,

Pulsing with confidence--Vibrant with flame,

and I didn't care if I wasn't a student at The Pointe! I let my feet fly anyways, graceful or not.

Red, Red, Red shoes.

And here you are now, after all those memories.

Trashy, beat up, worn, and beautiful.

And I'll still wear you, as long as you last,

My flaming converse shoes.

Very Bad Poetry: A sonnet to my shoes

Thine utter crossing laces

doth fray upon my feet

The stench that emanates from you

smells of rotten beets

I dream of days up mountains

and steps in fresh manure

Tears well at thoughts of bubblegum

their stickiness you lured

I have to sigh in thought

at the grand trail of scuff marks

Upon tile floors and wooden gyms;

the squeaking like birds--larks.

I stroke the fading fabric

of your withering all-star frame

I hope you'll not forget me

For I'll always remember your fame

For as long as I have you

In mud puddles I'll leap

And smash the wand'ring red ants

that beneath your soles creep

There's not so many folks with love

enough to make a verse

For my trashy, tattered, beat and worn

disgusting pair of Converse.

The Impulse: Train Station

M: Jessica, it's so good to see you again! I can't believe how long it's been.
W: Me neither. Who knew that three years could pass so quickly . . .
M: What are your plans, now that you've finished your undergrad and all?
W: Well, you remember how much I enjoy writing.
M: Yeah, I remember that little notebook you used to carry around.
W: The one you stole from me every so often; wehre you wrote your name all over on random pages? And hearts with our initials inside?
M: Yeah, that one. Anyway, go on!
W: You're blushing!
M: Go on!
W: You know I'm teasing. It's my job. Anyway, I'm leaving to Massachussets to pursue a career in journalism.
M: So fitting, for you. Someday, when you publish a pulitzer, I'll have bragging rights.
W (laughing): What do you mean?
M: You know, when this fabulous piece is raved about in newspaper columns and the news, and the whole literate audience in America booms "Who is Jessica W. Renaldi?" I'll pull out my yearbook, point to your picture, and show everybody that I know you-- that htis grand work was written by none other than my friend.
W: Well, I doubt that will happen for quite a while, if at all. But I appreciate the flatter nonetheless, Jake. (pauses, and mutters under her breath) my friend.
M: Jess-- (pauses; steps forward and back, shuffling, before lokoing back up at her, a faint smile on his face), do you ever wonder waht might've been?
W: I don't know what you mean.
M: I think you do, Jess.
W: I thought you stopped calilng me that.
M: What?
W: Jess. You haven't called me that since . . . since . . .
M: Yeah, I know when. But why not start back up again? Old habits die hard, and all that. And I missed you. I miss you. I can't hardly believe I'm talking to you now, while you're waiting for your train to take you across the country.
W: I can believe it. I can also believe that the old habits need to be left with the past. It's not worth it to me. I can't endure it again, Jake. You weren't the only one that was hurt by the distance.
M: I suppose you're right. But that doesn't mean my feelings have gone away in the least bit.
W: Jake, the distance--
W: You say it like it'll all be fien. Like we won't mind being apart, that our love will 'conquer all.' But it's time for me to move on. That was 1930, jake, and now its 1933. It has to be this way.
M (kisses her cheek, and whispers in her ear): I understand.
(uncomfortable silence)
W (feigned nonchalance): So, what are your plans?
M (looks down at his business suit): Well, judging by my stuffy garb, I think I'll be continuing on as a lawyer.
W: You'll do wonderfully!
(Train whistle)
W: That's my ride. I'd best be off. It was good to see you, really, it was.
M (picking up her suitcases and helping her aboard): You too. Good luck in Massachussets, Jess. Keep in touch.
W (with a sad smile): I think for both our best interests, I'd better not.
M (mournfully): Bye.

Four Alarm Fire

From my perspective in observing the painting, I pictured the man as an actual firefighter looking at a painting of a fire he actually fought. Here are what I believe his thoughts are:

I'm standing here at the museum

In uptown center street.

I cam because I had to see,

I had to see what Mack painted.

Last I saw him, he was walking

out of the Hospital. Healing. His face was

mangled, a long rough bubble of skin

hardened across his left jaw and ear,

where smooth pink skin once was.

His hands recovered, thankfully.

He leads me to this spot,

Where he pats my shoulder and leaves me a while

Leaves me to think,

But I can't think,

I can only remember.

I remember that fire, in '04

Its flames licking, eating up the dark

Swallowing the linen bed-sheets,

and devouring an oakwood cradle.

My gear rests heavily on my shoulders

A resistance to my speed

But protection from the heat.

I smell the cloud of thick smoke

racing to my lungs,

and the blinding confusion

of the ceiling above

crashing down around me,

landing in charcoal heaps at my feet.

I remember finding Mack passed out;

A man with rolling eyes and flimsy limbs,

Incapacitated on the smoldering floor.

I lift him over my shoulder, and rescue him,

diving--searching--crashing my way

out of the biting cold night air.

He groans through ember lips, "My baby.

My baby, Jean.

Save my baby."

I go back in,

I try to find the oaken cradle.

There she is, somehow protected

Her blankets just beginning to singe

I carry her, crying, away.

I never heard such a lovely cry.

She was alive, every sound she made,

It meant she was alive.

And here she comes, interrupting my reverie,

grabbing my leg.

"I'm here, Jean," I say, and lift her up.

She hugs me, and laughs.

I never heard such a lovely laugh.

"Thanks, Joe." Mack says, patting my shoulder again.

I stare into the fire once more,

the thing that destroyed Mack's home and nearly

so nearly took his life.

But from that burn

Grew friendship and renewal.

There is hope again.

--Genevive Louise Noette

Inside a Book

Here is an introduction to my writing, a poem:

Inside a book

The best place to be on a rainy day,

One thing so amazing it sweeps you away

A land of adventure tucked between a few pages

An old rune castle not walked through for ages

A fearsome black stallion you valiantly ride

Or a tall strong knight you fight beside

Out of window on high falls maiden’s hair

The dungeonous crags of a dragon’s lair

Venturing the world and incredible sights

Enjoying breathtaking northern lights

The heat of a battle—your heart starts to race

A Pegasus flies with endless grace

A whole new world we can explore

All we must do is open the door

If books are something you do without

Then in many grand times you are left out

I’ve been enchanted in many adventures

Through forbidden castles I have ventured

A horse ride, a battle, a wild goose chase

Inside a book is my favorite place.