Madrigal

It confuses me at times Why people are ashamed. They’re ashamed of their eye color, Of the depth of brown. Perhaps it reveals too much pain, An ache that blue would blur. They’re ashamed of their parents, Or perhaps their heritage. They change their names, From Owusu to Terrence. They’re ashamed of wrinkles, Of the wisdom they’ve earned. But that makeup covers also The scar and tear’s trickle. And I realize I, too, am ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed time has passed And left such scars. But I wait for the winds to wear them away, As I sit on the ledge of the abyss edge.

I love Ronyx!!! Thx for the update :D. Maddy (:

Thx a lot! I have some exercise videos I like to do but I'm always scared of scratching, so this is the perfect solution :). Maddy (:

My condolences, James. :( Maddy (:

All 3 are spinto. Tenore spinto, to be more specific (although the one on the left was struggling to match the tessitura of his partners and the middle one is slipping into Baritone range). What's admirable about them is that they have such great control of their vibrato. Not great voices for contemporary music, but they definitely could have good careers in the world of opera, or perhaps with world music. I just worry a bit about the amount of coverage they're getting at this age: their voices could still change within the next three years, and they could lose the ability to sing such high notes. (which is probably what will happen, as their voices are already quite deep) Let's hope their voices do nothing but improve :). My favorite was the 15 yr old; he has such impressive control! Maddy (:

Only you, Des, can make a computer tragedy funny.Maddy (:

That's some technically EXCELLENT advice, but I'm too stubborn for that. I'm too proud of what I write, and every suggestion or comment about my prose being too poetic stings like hell-- mainly because it's stuff that I already know. The first story I ever wrote was out of a wish for inclusion... I wanted to be a writer and not a reader, but it turned out to be the story I'm most ashamed of, since it didn't come from the heart... it came out of caprice. I tried alluding to a sex scene and used the word 'erection' (which I find extremely distasteful when I write it, but somehow acceptable in others' works) way too many times. Coincidentally, it was the most relatable story... but then again that was its purpose. Anyway, back on topic. I need to learn to accept criticism first, and for that I'll need to 'learn to learn'. I've always done things on my own-- I've never taken an art, poetry, or voice class... the three things I most like about myself I'm a bit unwilling to... change? So, in conclusion, I need to get rid of this silly voice in my head that tells me I'm too good for advice. Maddy (: (see? I even found a way to excuse myself from taking your advice)

I've actually done my fair share of 'trying'. I'm somewhat successful with short stories, but both my flash fiction and my novels always slip into the poetic... and I don't like that, as it makes me feel self-obsessed. I've thrown quite a few chapters into the recycle bin as a result of this annoying self-awareness. I guess what I'm doing is trying to find that fine line between pure narration and self-indulgence. I'm a bit tired of, as you say, jumping into the pool, as my efforts to write a novel have always resulted in time wasted. So I'm now doing various things to get accustomed to narrate things instead of just throwing whatever comes to mind into paper. (Understand that writing poetry to me comes as naturally as writing this reply... it's as simple as answering a query or replying) My goal isn't just to write a good story. My goal is to be content with what I write, and therein lies the challenge. And, of course, I thank you for your suggestion :). Perhaps I will do both, if I find the time. Maddy (:

Well, the definitions of prose poetry and poetic prose aren't quite... defined. I guess I should've called this narrative poetry. From what I understand prose poetry is poetry with narrative and prose elements, while poetic prose is prose with poetic elements: such as heavy use of metaphors and figurative language. I've been trying to write poetry that doesn't need too much explanation these past few months, trying to make the crossover from poetry to prose. Hopefully I'll achieve this someday, as my brain tends to think in rhythm and rhyme. Maddy (:

I have some trouble writing prose... it just doesn't come naturally. Everything I write wants to be a poem. So I figured I'd start writing some prose poetry and work my way up. These are only exercises... so if someone asks, I didn't write it ;). On Monday I tied my shoes and the door I swung, The air was calm, the growth of darkness had begun, And I looked up, the stars were bright Though not so clear as yesternight. I lifted up my left, my right, quicker I ran through the light, the lined lamp?s flicker Marked the way, the sidewalk firmer Than yesterday, so I made my legs limber. Halfway through the jog I saw a flash I heard a thunder first, the crash My ears did hear, but on I went As the winds picked up and started to vent. I turned into a dead end, the wind Ran through my hair, and like mint The air went down my throat While the tree above me like a boat Did swing its branches ominously. And they snapped so hard, I was so scared. How quickly had my luck turned-- What was a harmless jog became a hunted Voyage through thundered street. And the winds picked up and light Flashed above, no longer was I limber; I remember my fear of its timber. I never arrived home, for God Reached down that night; I was hand-picked. Maddy (:

That's freakin' awesome :D.

I pretty much echo what Des said. Didn't expect a happy poem about the closet! Very touching <3. Maddy (:

Thank you, Bruin and Des. I'm experimenting at the moment, trying to see what works and what doesn't. Maddy (:

We were at the marketplace, You and I, and our worn feet: We stared up at the oranges And the carrot juice and beet. There the cookie crumbs Became one with the dust And the cheesecake bits Encrusted on the floor?s pits. There was burnt milk, Caramel?s such sweet smell And there were eyes And ears, mouths would yell ?Keep an eye on the boy And a hand on the food? For as I had no toy I had a stealing mood. There was a pit in my stomach And it pulled so hard And it pushed and tugged It screamed so loud. I looked down and saw my feet They had no grace The pebbles stung So did my face. The wind was warm But I cared not. I was hungry no more. And so I walked back To the darkness? of the alley I crawled on the black And kept no tally. It was my home But for one more day I could forget the groans And there I lay: Hunger torn asunder.

What do you hide, titan? Is there a criminal inside One so slippery, so translucent That even his dark soul bears no resemblance In your transparent windows? Is there evidence of murder In your colored face, Or are your arms stained With the blood from the criminal?s case? Are you the shelter for orphans Or homeless souls that would otherwise wander The streets of New York Or work the corners of Denver? Or are you empty, Are your walls web-ridden And white-washed Like my soul? Or are you full of trinkets, Of old books and photographs of a wasted childhood And outgrown clothes and worn-sole shoes Like my soul? Or are you the reflection Of countless souls. Of those who travel without destination. Are you simply a spatial metaphor?

If that were the case he would've gotten a lot more than just the swine flu! Maddy (:

Just like the thread that forms a rope Entwined are the insults in a swirl That we call memory. For the bridge was not the cause Nor was the truck or its twirl Nor was it solely the fault of hope: A wish for a sweeter melody. It is your thoughts I find amusing, Beliefs and falsified promises of heaven That you truly think you?ll earn audience with the King. Look closely at the thread, The one behind his neck, On its face your name, Inscribed in scarlet fleck. You insist on calling it suicide But there will come a day When in his presence your resolution will stray As you realize it was homicide. Suicide is nothing more than second hand smoke.

U.u I hadn't read this. Beautiful poem, Des. It's the kind of poem that makes the hard moments bearable. Thank you very much for the feeling. Maddy

Do you mean he looks like a monkey? LOL (as in your avatar!) Maddy (:

There?s a tide So strong So violent. The fishermen flee In their small brittle boats And happy are the trees To see near them oats For they know that the earth Will forever be close. And the winds become violent As the moonlight punishes And the flower?s deep violet Turns black. And the flow of time seems to slow at its gaze For the moonlight has rage inscribed on its face. Its eyes no longer craters, but silent volcanoes. And the waves are helpless at the God?s command: Their tears are useless, their cries fall bland. Just when destruction seems to loom? The moon retreats and leaves no doom.

I?ve heard of growing up But jaded as I was Since early childhood I never really did. Carmen would just look-- Her fingers sharp, a hook-- At both of our faces. She?d know of all our fears And notice the trail of tears. And like a river through wonderland Or a fault at Disneyland, Our eyes grew tired. They ached in silence, orbs swollen And lashes worn, happiness stolen. And it is now I?ve learned That our maturity was innate: After our luck turned We started growing down And noticed the smile on the clown And we licked the empty plate.

RIP Michael Jackson. I'm a lover of all types of art; his music and showmanship were singularly unmatched. Maddy (:

Obviously the person being exorcised is either acutely psychologically damaged, under the effects of a drug, or both. I'd like to have a little more faith in Christian extremists, but I just can't. I wouldn't be surprised if that church released this video in order to create some sort of 'gay panic' in the community, so they could perform a larger number of exorcisms and gain more following. Thank God (not theirs, obviously) it backfired. Maddy (: edit: just read Cole's post. I agree.

Eee, sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound that serious. Like a lot of people, I have considered suicide, but I'd never kill myself. This poem is just the product of a fleeting idea, magnified. Thank you for the kind comments. Maddy (: