Random answer #1: "The bald frog and his Lilly"

This all started when I was editing my profile when I first joined Blogger (about 7 months before Creative Writing). I've since killed that blog, since it only had three posts when I forgot about it. I noticed the random question at the very bottom and, next to an answer box, instructions to check the small box below the answer bit and then save the profile to generate a new question. Curious, I checked the box and saved my profile, even though I hadn't changed anything. I scrolled anxiously back to the bottom of the screen, where, lo and behold, a new question had appeared. With childlike ecstasy, I repeated the process: check the box, save the profile, scroll down. Another new question materialized. When I did it all again, the first question reappeared. Slightly disappointed, but eager to discover how many questions there actually were, I decided to copy and paste each question into a Word document, just for the sake of collecting them. So far, I've got 84 of these different takes on random, and they just keep on coming.

Now, I have officially decided to answer each and every one of them. As I work my way down the list, I'll post my answers in this blog, instead of on my profile, for three reasons: 1)because it would take a really long time to bring the question I've answered back around on the profile bit; B) because apparently there's a word limit on the little answer box that no one told me about; and III) because I said so.

So there you have it. Official titles of each answer (if there are titles) are in the post title. Original questions will be in the post, right before their answer.

Random Question #1: The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

So there's this frog, Freddy, and he's trying to find a lady frog. He's about to start over to a lady frog that he's had his eye on, Lilly, when he looks down at his reflection in the pond and realizes that he's bald! Freddy had heard stories about how undesirable baldness was, so he makes himself a wig using a grassy plant near the shore of the pond. He gets the wig on, takes a look at himself, and decides right there and then that he is the finest little frog he's ever seen or heard about in his entire froggy life. Finally ready to introduce himself, Freddy hops across the pond, from lily pad to lily pad, over to Lilly. Just as he's hopping onto the lily pad right next to hers, Brad, who’s had it out for Freddy ever since they were tadpoles, jumps onto the lily pad himself! Finding himself mid-jump with no alternative landing spot, Freddy falls into the pond, and his wig away. Too sad for words, he gets himself back to his own lily pad, and sits in solitude for the rest of his poor froggy life.

Inciting the Wrath of a Poet

I realize that this goes against my philosophy of "Let your poetry speak for itself: no intros," but I've already started. So there. I included this poem in my rough draft packet of personal poetry, but forgot to type it up in time for the final project. Therefore, I decided to post it here. The title of this post is the title of the poem as well. Enjoy.

anger pulsing,
taking over,
Controlling,
even those most stable
can be
pushed
over
the
edge
of their
sanity, reality
redefined
as Unreasonable,
but not anymore.

Egotistical,
Selfish,
and
Lazy:
three Sins
rolled into
one.
never cross those
who can
Manipulate,
aren't afraid to
do what they have to,
to get
what they want,
what they need.

respect
denies
attributes of the
self,
morals and values
(dis)IN(te)GRATE
under
the Watchful eye
of
Idle hands.
the beholder is
no longer
what matters
once
a Soul
is set
on
Fire.

What I Did in English Class Today

*NOTE: Each title indicates a new line of thought, meaning that a new stanza is not a new poem. The French one (actually written in French class, which is right after English) is followed by an approximate translation.*

This is embarrassing
I know you know it:
Poetry embarrasses.
Showing your bare soul,
your views on life, and your dreams,
takes more guts than you'd believe.

Three Important Questions
If I string haikus
on a thread of emotion,
and add some tankas
to embellish on my thoughts,
can I still call it haiku?

If there are no breaks
between each of the stanzas,
or if I allow
sentences to cross over,
let the punctuation extend
beyond barriers
set down by Japan's poets,
so long as I keep
the syllables in their lines,
will my work be recognized?

If I give you but
another question, not the
answers that you seek,
will my poems you admire
for the beauty they create?

The (Un)Answer
There are no answers,
so don't waste your time on truths.
Let your questions flow.

Biodegradable
Please conserve paper.
Print your poems in columns.
Put them in your blog.
Maybe you could just read them.
It's better for them and Earth.

Juice
I'm having a draught
in my mind's creative depths.
I know that poets
write, but also read daily.
Think they just run out of juice?

En Français
Qu'est-ce que c'est le mot
pour dire "tanka" en français?
Peut-être c'est la même,
mais il faut être "difficile."
Je ne les vois pas partout.

Translation:
In French
What is the word
to say "tanka" in French?
Maybe it's the same,
but it should be "difficult."
I don't see them everywhere.

Can a Poet Lie? Judge for Yourself...

"Poetry is lame."
"Poetry is for losers."
"You're still in that class?"
This blog has low readership,
since many friends don't get it.

Revel in romance.
Love is good for fairy tales,
but to last the night
just give me a romancer,
a guy who speaks my language.

Haikus aren't poems?
I'd like to see you write some
that show your spirit.

Tankas are cheating
because haikus can't contain
what I need to say?
Sometimes, fourteen syllables
really makes all the difference.

If the Jetsons had one, why shouldn't you?

Why not? You're already in the market for a new car, right? Something better for the environment than that rainforest deathtrap of an SUV you're no longer very proud to own? What could be better than a car that gets 500 miles per gallon of regular unleaded gas, not to mention one that flies? The Jetsons had a flying car, you know.

What's that? Yes, theirs was a bit more compact than this. But can you imagine what kind of cargo space they must've had? Besides, this car morphs between car and plane, depending on whether you're driving or flying. This car flies and drives! None of this hovering nonsense. If you're stuck in traffic, morph into the car, and everything is normal. Roadtrip? Let those wings extend and you'll be there in no time. If getting there is half the fun for you, you can drive, knowing that flying is always an option if you change your mind halfway or become extremely impatient.

Oh, the price? Well, as they are still in the developing stage, the price will vary from our current figures, but...no, you can't really be walking away now! There's at least a year until you can physically receive your car, so payment plans can be worked to meet nearly all needs! No, you haven't heard the best part yet!! It comes with free lessons, a full how-to on operating your vehicular miracle. Yes, free! Not included in the price of purchase at all, absolutely free. Not all dealer offer this, you know. Some charge extra for the classes, by the hour. Plus, if you buy your flying car here, every member of you family with a valid driver's license or permit can take part in the lessons, for no extra fee!

Honestly, what have you got to lose? Place the first down payment on your very own flying car today!

Typewriters shall rule once more

I really miss typewriters. When I was younger, I would always beg my great-aunt to let me use her typewriter for no reason other than that typewriters are awesome.

There is really something unique and special about putting a piece of paper in a typewriter, centering it, and letting your thoughts to be poked into inky permanency. I feel this surge of unidentifiable emotion knowing that I cannot simply press "Backspace" to erase my mistakes, that every letter is eternally present once I press its respective key. Sitting at a computer, jabbing at a keyboard as virtual script appears backlit in front of you, quite easily destroyed with the wrong sequence of keystrokes, feels impersonal and fake, like a faceless anyone could be writing this memoir to a fantastic science teacher, or recounting that one stormy night at camp. The non-electric typewriter is also a mechanical wonder, metal bits and pieces all screwed together to work in glorious technical harmony: press a button and a bar immediately flies up to smack language onto your piece of paper. There is no need for specification of font or font size on a typewriter; everything is uniform, allowing a reader to judge the literature for its composition, not its presentation. Society needs to bring back the typewriter, if not for everyone then at least for those appreciative souls who forever pine for the simplicity and classic beauty of the original industrial thought translator.

You can call me...

Reads a Lot and Eats Good Chocolate While She Bakes All Day

An Ode to What I've Been Trying to Say

I need
a
reaction.
Don't
just
let me go,
let me flow
into the
hard and
unforgiving
currents and
undertows
of a vast
and endless ocean
unknown.

Don't get me wrong.
I don't want you
to protect me
from what you think
I don't know.
I just want
a
reaction,
something
to remember
you by when
I'm gone
and
alone.

I don't want
your anger,
your sympathy,
your pity,
your regrets.
I don't want you
to worry,
to obsess,
to go crazy.
No one
likes their mother
when she clings
and Pampers,
especially when
all they really want is
a
reaction.

So
let this,
my ode to
eagles losing
their first-born fledglings,
and
to the eldest daughters
of alpha males,
reach
your ears
untainted
by what
you want me
to say
to think
to feel
so you will hear me
say
what I truly think
and
what I truly feel.
And
maybe,
just
maybe,
they'll be the same.

Weather: What a Character

All was calm and dark. After a long day of lab experiments and flight simulation, followed by an even longer night of gossip, peanut butter M&M’s, and severely burnt popcorn, sleep was welcomed with open, if drooping, arms.

A young girl lay in a dormitory bed, an odd combination of simultaneously stretched and coiled limbs beneath a single sheet and a homemade fleece blanket. A small electric fan blew at the center of this gently breathing mass from its perch on a chair dragged nearly to the edge of the bed.

Outside, dark billowing clouds, heavy with rain and giving off an aura of trouble, gathered around the tops of academic buildings, as if waiting for their cue to strike. The air zipped with electric energy, and the indescribably delicious smell that only comes before a good soaking rain drifted to the ground, into windows opened to ward off the stifling summer heat, and permeated the silent and soon-to-be-forgotten dreams of many piles of blankets steadily rising and falling with unconscious life.

Without warning, a single drop of water fell from an impatient cloud, riding a powerful gust of air through a window to land smack onto the young girl’s nose. As if it were a sudden bursting snore from her nasally-impaired father, she brushed at her face even as she rolled onto her other side and pulled her coverings tighter around her, oblivious to the chaos-toting Pandora’s Box that she had unlocked along with her windows earlier that night.

Another few drops fell, each blown by the forceful wind into the side of a building, like particularly stupid birds into a really clean window. The storm began this way, hesitantly, building up its courage and confidence in preparation for the real thing.

As a drizzling level of rainfall was reached, a flash of lightning zigzagged its way from the clouds to the ground and back, like a cautious swimmer would use their toe to test the water temperature. A few short seconds later, a resounding crack of thunder split open the sky, and let loose torrents of cold, unrelenting rain, which the wind directed right at the young girl’s window.

However, in combination with the girl’s conveniently wall-facing position as she slept on, the arrangement of the bed into the corner of the room allowed the majority of the nocturnal shower to pour itself onto the carpeted floor, just short of the small fan. Her roommate was not so lucky. With her identical dorm bed pressed right below her open window’s ledge, rain bucketed down and quickly began to soak her blankets through to the person underneath them.

Being an uneasy sleeper to begin with, the young girl’s roommate chose this moment to roll onto her other side, where she had run out of mattress to catch her cataleptic chassis, and thus landed with a blanket-muffled thud. Her grunt upon impact was as drawn out as her fall was abrupt. Gathering the avalanche of comforter around her, with eyes still closed in fatigued denial of consciousness, she stood up and climbed back into bed in one fluid motion, completely unaware of the icy cold lake of rainwater that had formed in the crater she’d left in the old, sagging mattress.

With a shrill squeak stifled by her sleepiness, she leapt out of the waterlogged bed, still clutching all her coverings, to land with surprising feline grace on her feet. She spent quite a few moments blinking uncomprehendingly at the storm streaming with an unparalleled intensity in the window, unable to do anything but cradle her impossibly huge bundle of bedspread, as one brusquely woken in the middle of the night is prone to do. She finally regained enough of her senses to wake the young girl before crossing their bathroom to an adjoining room, where two other girls slept, unaware of the meteorological mayhem teeming in their wide-open windows.

In a flurry of chaotic yet coordinated choreography, the four girls flitted from window to open window, closing them as quickly as they could manage in their inebriating exhaustion. After laying down towels underneath the nearly flooded bathroom window, they quickly formed a makeshift bed for the young girl’s roommate from her plethora of bedcovering, as her actual bed was beyond the capacity of their sleepy cerebella. All of the girls then returned to their respective places of rest, and as the young girl replaced her sheets around her tired body, she thought to herself what a storm survival story this would eventually make.

First Memory

My earliest memory is blocked by fingers, like when someone takes a picture with their fingertip over the lens. Everything is taller than I am, and everything is an earthy tone of emerald green. I stare down a seemingly endless path, flanked on both sides by dark brown wooden benches. I know they must be full of people, but I cannot see them.

I feel someone tap my shoulder, but I don't look to see them. I feel them nudge me forward, but I don't move an inch. Movement is no longer a voluntary choice, it seems.

Suddenly, off in the distance, a familiar face appears. Though it is green as well, it is distinctly different from the emerald forest that surrounds me. Its slightly neon quality clashes with the majestic sea of uniform color just enough that I am able to identify it from the distance that separates us. The characteristic diadem shape of the green silhouette that makes up its head stirs up something inside me that wipes away all my fears.

I unstick one foot from the floor, then the other, as I begin my stiff walk towards the comfort and security before me. The face grows ever clearer, I come ever closer, and then the memory fades, and disappears.