Which other graceful swan of music holds such serenity in your arpeggios?
You, the most magnificent of piano preludes host more meaning ion the pure simplicity of your tonic triads,
Your C-E-G-C patterns which form such gaps that nothing else but a major third can go between,
Jessica, Tessie, and Amy live in a place where everybody wears a color-coded tasseled identification braid from their right sleeve, signaling what they do for a living. The system works well, except for the people wearing yellow identification braids. These people sell illegal braids to those with bad reputations, so they could appear as someone better and make a living. The people wearing yellow braids are the one problem in this otherwise perfectly organized system. The three friends learn that those with yellow braids are disrupting the economy, too, but Amy has other thoughts about these people.
Read part one of this story here!
Read part two of this story here!
Loud banging crashed against the door of Tessie’s house. She popped out of bed, peeped through the front curtain, then ran back to where her parents were sleeping. “It’s Jessica. I’ll be back.”
I was inspired to write this poem after visiting the Turell Skyspace at Rice University.
I listen
When they come to see me they talk
They can’t help doing it so I don’t blame them
But the conversations!
Did you turn the stove off before we left?
Aww, look, a birdie.
Their laughter rumbles like happy thunder
And their sighs whisper like lonely wind.
Jessica, Tessie, and Amy live in a place where everybody wears a color-coded tasseled identification braid from their right sleeve, signaling what they do for a living. The system works well, except for the people wearing yellow identification braids. These people sell illegal braids to those with bad reputations, so they could appear as someone better and make a living. The people wearing yellow braids are the one problem in this otherwise perfectly organized system.
Read part one of this story here!
Amy, Jessica, and Tessie had been friends for a long time. Since they were seven. They met at a playground, where Jessica was squatting over an ant pile, crumbling bits of Giraffe Bread onto the ground and watching the ants haul it away. Amy and Tessie were also playing, and ran over to see what Jessica was doing. Then they were all feeding the ants, and their parents started talking to each other because that’s what you do when your kids play together.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Jessica asked, running towards her two friends. Her handbag, which held her money, swung from her shoulder. On the right sleeve of her short-sleeved shirt, her identification braid swung from where it was clipped to the hem. It was a white piece of braided rope with a tassel on the end, like the braid on the sleeve of all the other children her age. Everybody wore a color-coded braid.
I dig through the pile of things thrift-store bound
A collection of never-minds confined in paper bags.
There’s my leggings with a hole in the knee
A slightly squished hat which I examine, shake out, and crown myself
Some ugly sandals (glad somebody’s getting rid of them)
A purple swimsuit cover-up which wasn’t needed in the first place
And a soft gray shirt with an elephant on it.
A nest in our blackberry bush
Just a little nest, Mockingbird
Little sticks criss-crossed
Pine needles lined its inside.
I scanned my surroundings through my binoculars. Not many birds out today. A soft footstep sounded in the lawn, and I pointed my binoculars at the source of the noise. Sophie waved. I could tell she was smiling, even though my view of her face was too close and blurry. I lowered my binoculars.
Every night, before the sun
Goes totally behind the trees
Bertha, entering the run
Listens to the evening breeze.
© 2024 The Wattle
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑