In America

I ride in the red Chevy truck of my grandfather,

Bumping along the smoky dirt roads of Sussex County.

I could spot that old truck for miles:

The red, white and blue “Support Our Troops” ribbon,

Sticks crooked next to the yellow Jersey plate.

Bruce Springsteen sings through the Sony radio,

The New Jersey Herald, in its green bag, sits gleaming on the dashboard.

His truck smells of sawdust from the old family business:

Grandpa and Dad build house trusses.

My iPhone, an icon of modern day, buzzes in the pocket of my Levi’s.

It is Grandma calling to tell Grandpa dinner will be ready in ten minutes:

Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans from the garden.

Grandpa pulls a U-ey and heads back up the hill.

We are greeted by my mother and father, my sister and brother,

All here for Sunday night dinner.

At last, Grandpa and I are home.

On Slate Hill.

In America.

A Quote for Your Day

I came across this quote while doing a project, and I really liked it! Don't forget to lend someone a smile in the hallway today! (:


The only people with whom you should try to get even are those who have helped you.-- John E. Southard

VERY ROUGH draft!

I need help with a title, and comments are always welcome:

Somehow my eyes drift to yours,

In the bustling hallways.

My short attention span

Clings on for just that moment.

I wait for you to turn your head,

Back to see my hopeful eyes.

My heart breaks when I see no return.

And a flood rushes back.

I wish I watered the sprouting

Connection.

The one that started in just one night.

I wish I thought, before

I hastily replied.

Rather I turned away,

Scared, and unsure.

And there I walk,

Head down low.

Just waiting for a reply.

Food for Thought

Comment with your favorite sound. I'll start:
-Rain

A Broken Limb on the Family Tree

The stale air dries my lungs

As I approach the dreadful room.

Who is this stranger

Missing beneath the bandages,

Casts like vines

Stitches the veins of a leaf?

The swollen foot angled upward

Increasing circulation like a rushing brook.

Your arm is caught in the web of a sling,

Eyes hardly peaking through the swollen lids.

The young doctor struts in

A lion amidst his predators.

Instructing me to step aside,

I obey, and sink into the floral armchair

The cheerful material has little affect

On my heavy mind.

Inducing him with chemicals ,

Probing him with steel hardware,

The mysterious man grunts.

Scribbling symptoms in sloppy script,

The doctor glances at a nearby calendar:

Exactly three weeks since the accident.

Looking at me with clinical apathy

A disconnected soul.

He explains the lack of progress

Words streaming into my ears,

Like fireflies innocently floating to their captivity.

Tears boil beneath my quivering lids.

Why were you so foolish,

To make this immature mistake?

Don’t you know how much it hurts,

To see Dad, the looming oak tree,

Silent in the breeze.

Or Mom, the weeping flower,

Wilting beneath the oak tree’s shade.

And don’t forget your broken sister,

The apple plucked before her prime.

The visions of the turning car,

Flash like lightning daily.

I can’t forget the miserable scene,

Cannot help but wonder,

Why not me?

The guilt has piled up,

Like snow in heaps by the river bank.

I pray you make it through,

For I wouldn’t be the same again.

Big brother, with arm in a web,

And stitches like veins,

Come back to us.

To Me.

Salute to the Ocean

*written about a Norman Rockwell painting. It is a rough draft, comment!*

Each morning, Grandpa and I would race the sun,

Hoping to climb the harbor hill just as she did.

With his trembling hand and shaky legs

He would point at the approaching ships.

He named their brands and explained how each ran.

Grandpa, like me, never forgot his captain hat and jacket,

The clothes that often told more stories than him.

His cane was the only thing crippling the keen memory.

Yelling “land ho!” to the fellow captains,

And waving them home to our small town on the cape.

As the sun smiled in our eyes, we saluted the men.

Even the pup gave respect to the hard workers.

Grandpa knew what the returning men had gone through.

He himself worked for years on the shrimp boats-

Cold weather, threatening conditions, and small pay.

At last the boats would dock, some with better luck than others.

The sight of the sore men was the signal,

To return to our little shack and sleeping Grandma.

We turned our backs on the bustling shore of men,

And Grandpa patted his wet eyes with a handkerchief.

I know they were tears, but not of sadness or regret.

Instead, tears of appreciation and remembrance,

Of the days he, too, relied on the unpredictable ocean

Happy Poe?

Honestly, I have never been much of a Poe fan. His dark and gruesome writing is not exactly my taste. However, in English class, we were given the assignment to read various poems and prose my Poe. Although I didn't enjoy most of these stories, to my surprise, I enjoyed one. Yes, just one, but nevertheless I had officially enjoyed a piece by the dark Poe. The name? "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allan Poe. 

The poem tells of a man who falls deeply in love with a woman named, you guessed it, Annabel Lee. He explains how they lived as kids by the "kingdom by the sea", but one day she was taken away from him. But although the woman he loved so deeply was taken away from him, he still had an endless love for her. For once, I think Poe, just for a second, broke down a wall where he could be seen as a sympathetic and gentle man. He refers to the woman as his bride, as if he will never let go of the love they had. 

Poe, you proved me wrong. I do not hate all of your work. In fact, "Annabel Lee" might just be my favorite love poem. If you want to see if you like it, check it out:
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/annabel-lee/