What To Do About The Consequences, Goodbye/Hello Wish It Would Snow, Shadows are For Decoration, A Study of Dickinson, Small Dreams

What To Do About the Consequences

My hunger stretches over and over,
yet I feel the ripples in the waterfalls of my skin.
Phantoms move about in the black space,
trying to sell sleep, or maybe themselves,
sometimes it amounts to much the same thing.
The feeling in that hollow room
between my hips, below my shoulders,
drapes a chain of bronzed feathers around my chest.
There was a field of thorns on the path I chose
so now they stab at me,
my blood and self rushing back to my body.
In you I trust, not to use me as a standing resort.
The hardest part is leaving all those clouds behind.


Goodbye, Hello, Wish It Would Snow

Snow, the torn pieces of the sky falling down on raised and laughing heads,
It’s cold up there, wherever snow comes from,
Cold and dark and wet,
But when it chooses, those little bits and pieces,
Those fragments of fluffy happiness come tumbling down.
It was snowing that day, or maybe I’m just imagining things,
But let’s say it was snowing when she said hello,
When we said hello,
And it stopped, it stopped snowing when she said goodbye.
But that’s gone and done for,
Now she’s left, she’s far, far away.

I’m alone as she is,
And the cold atmosphere is serving as a reminder, of something from a photograph
That no one ever saw.
No one knows this of course, everyone’s trapped in their heads,
Staring at the windows that isolate them
Thinking, “Snow, dammit, snow!” because it still isn’t enough to release us.
Maybe it’s snowing in Australia right now,
Or maybe it isn’t. Either way,
It’s snowing here,
In my head and in my heart, it was snowing then and it’s snowing now.

We sat in that car seat in the snow, no,
Not the car,
Just the car seat. Maybe that’s supposed to symbolize something,
To have some ulterior meaning,
Or maybe, just maybe,
It was merely there when we needed it,
There to act as a prop to the play life has become, except in this play,
No one knows their lines.
Yes, it was simply there,
Just like the snow.

That state of mine seems so far away, but its receding back
Turned to say, “Hello” in the snowstorm,
Maybe it waved a bit,
Shouted my name in its welcoming voice, but I couldn’t hear it,
Couldn’t hear it when it left me,
My heart was pounding, wishing too loudly for that.
I’ll see them again,
Maybe next week, maybe next month,
Maybe next lifetime,
But I will see them again; maybe it’ll even be snowing.

Yet I know that no time will have passed,
Everything else will be just a funny little dream, a dream from a far away land,
We’ll laugh and smile and tell of the time we spent away,
The time that didn’t ever exist, and maybe,
Just maybe,
The snow will be strong, strong enough to last me through my next dream.
How can you see someone’s heart when it’s written on their hand?
No one would expect it to be there, they would look for it in different places,
Such as a worn out shoe,
Surely the best place to keep it, keep your heart.

Or maybe they’ll expect it to be in the closet,
Carelessly thrown on the floor, but they’ll never look on your hand,
Yet it’s right there in front of them,
Written very clearly, as hearts should always be,
It says, “Snow dammit, snow!”
We’ll go out, with our hearts on our hands,
We’ll laugh and dance and smile again,
When it stops snowing we’ll say goodbye. But didn’t you know?
It’s interchangeable and constant,
So no one and nothing, nothing can ever really stop snow.

Shadows are for Decoration
I saw a shooting star last night, dancing in my dreams,
Or was it just my imagination?
I’m stomping around and making lots of noise,
Screaming just to make myself heard.
Now you’re flying, cruising along,
Tell me again why I can’t be moving on?
I’m no James Dean,
Or even your Brooklyn Queen,
So let me sing the song of the lost wanderer,
And stare at the sun’s afterglow on the roof of your car.

A Study of Dickinson
Fair lady behind the window, waiting,
Do you not miss the rapture of the world?
You are your own deity and downfall.
But that matters not,
You declare yourself,
And who is to know if you lie?
I am very much concerned
With the human state of being.
What is God to me? I challenge Him
To write the lines of the
Cosmos with the dark ink in my head.
If Dickinson and Whitman
Are of the natural world,
Why then, I am of myself
And of the universe!
(perhaps they are much the same.)

The Indian Summer breathes a mist upon all the skies.
Those with the hard bodies and gleams in their eyes
Whisper treacherous beliefs that
Wind into my brain and bind me.
Convince me, lie to me, do to me what you will,
For I think I must surrender.
Where does the proof of religion lie?
Does it hang thick and heavy over the grass
In the early morning?
May I call myself a child?
Or do I know too much to find all the answers?
My own blood and body refuse to linger here,
Why would I leave them to be devoured?

Don’t try to explain to me this immortality,
I know all too well that
The bright pigments on and of me
Will fall into, upon themselves
When all the Heavens and Earth dissolve into
That cool blue haze.
The meek won’t inherit these worlds.
I’m sorry but I won’t believe these prophecies,
So I leave them to their quiet oblivion.
If this wild energy devours me,
Well then, let it devour me.
Clarity tangles its fingers in my hair,
Strokes my cheek, leaving a cold, calm trail,
Wraps around my hips,
Perhaps the most fickle of lovers.
I accept you, lowest of creatures as my king,
I bow down to you in utter worship.
That will not satisfy the world,
This I know for certain;
I must do away with all that humanity demands of me.
Perhaps it is not so important now.

I choose now to explode into silver slivers,
Pulsing with the rhythm of you and the rhythm of me.
The butterfly wings leave dusky marks upon my skin.
Perhaps this is fleeing for me,
Yet a more fantastical downfall I can’t imagine.
You overwhelm me, overcome me as I slowly lose my knowledge, my awareness.
Such a blissful and enlightening ignorance is this.
I lost my words again but mostly I think that’s quite alright.
The tempting dark fills my head, swirls around me
Like the shroud of night itself.
Let me paint my lips with all that the universe holds,
If you dare to allow me to discover it.
Perhaps the ecstasy of this will unhinge me,
Leave me floating in the space between the worlds.
Yet that seems to matter not.
Can you see all the obvious longings in my mind?
I hope so for while my lips utter sounds into the night,
They do not give voice to that which I hold secret.
All subtlety will be lost on me, I’m afraid.

Yet these words seem blatantly obvious to me,
Do you feel overwhelmed by this?
Pictures and poets lie,
You have to realize that.
I don’t find the fear in all that you encompass.
Must I truly be saved?
It would be lovely and freeing to lose my control,
For I think the swirls in my eyes
Can capture the king of kings.
Perhaps I can make you lose your calm,
This is a game I can play with myself.
Can I drive you over the edge?

Small Dreams

She said to me, “All life is a metaphor for something”
The black hole under my tongue tried to swallow her words
But she would not be left nameless so she screamed from within,
And I bound my eyes so they wouldn’t let loose green flames,
“A metaphor for what?” I asked, hiding in the dark,
feeling the roses on thorny ropes blooms from my lips,
and for a while she danced on the lawn,
twirling about in her dress made of stars,
“I’m not quite sure yet” she answered me wisely,
then we wandered the mountain roads at one in the morning,
searching for a place where we would not be told to be silent.

Sarah Saltiel, Age 15, Grade 11, Trinity School, Silver Key

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