Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Stairway to Heaven

Hi again. This is another poem inspired by a song title. My tutor gave it to me and told me to write a poem about it. Like One in A Million, I was also reminded of a Dix-It card.

Stairway to Heaven.

Heaven waited.
The snail could see it,
In the faint pink plumes of cloud,
The rays of evening light
Fanning across the sky like bulrushes.
There at the top of the stairs,
The sun glowed aureate and scarlet.
All else was deep indigo,
A quenching blue that spoke of
Approaching night.
On the edge of the sun,
An angel’s wing fanned out.
Dust motes on its edges were alchemized to gold.
The snail could hear voices,
Faint like the ringing of church bells
On a tower too lofty to see.
He stuck out a moist, wrinkled foot
And started climbing.

Monday, September 24, 2012

One In a Million

Hi. I'm Cella Mondegrine, CA student, Asian, thirteen. Lately, I've been getting these mysterious urges to go out and show my poetry to someone, which is why I started this blog. Hopefully, you'll like it. Feel free to comment, as long as it isn't profane. [Helpful criticism is fine.] I've been writing since I was eight, and though I wasn't that great when I started out, lately my tutor and family have been saying I should publish it. Anyway, enough rambling. This is my poem. It was inspired by Mr. Benedict, a song title, and a Dix-It card with red and white poppies on it.

One In a Million

A sea,
A cacophony,
Of dancing poppies
Under the sun.
Petals like silk
Fluttered like wings,
A host of butterflies-
All red, vivid red, crimson,
Blood pouring from the cliffs,
Into the jagged sea.
As if a thousand torches
Had been lit beneath,
It all glowed
On the edge of the cliffs,
Just hanging,
To a weathered crumb
Of the sea’s leavings,
 A white poppy flickered.
Every now and then,
The wind picked it up
And sent it flying
This way or that,
So that it seemed any moment
The petals must relinquish their hold,
And go soaring off
Into the immense blue.
Poor plain petals,
Devoid of color,
Subsisting on the whimsy of the wind.
Sympathetic, perhaps,
Was the bedraggled man
Standing next to it,
Almost crushing it,
Lank hair flattened across
A face of remote misery.
Ah! Did he appear
Abrupt, almost rude
In your mental tableau
Of poppies, cliffs, sea and sun?
Perhaps he was unwelcome.
Perhaps he should have knocked?
I apologize.
Just the same was he
To his relatives and family,
To whom, I am afraid
He was nothing more than a nuisance.
You can be sure, however,
That he did not apologize to them-
Though he may have come close to it.
I am making up for it now.
Morose was the man,
Before the cruel reflections
Of glaring sun and sea.
It was lucky, perhaps,
That he was shielded by unwashed hair.
No sound came from him.
He would not have been heard
Above the cacophony of uncaring life.
One foot snuck into the air.
Haloed by vibrant blue,
It paused for a moment,
As if unwilling.
Then he toppled.
And with him,
Hooked by his foot,
The poppy fell also.