(26) - (30) + Wrap-up

(26) How to Write Poetry

-Dwell in moments

-Give yourself over to brokenness

-Maintain spaces

-Fall in love with strangers

-Gaze up through windows

-Re-write stories

-Undress emotions

-Channel other peoples' pain

-Amplify your rage

-Remember what you'd rather forget

-Give up on giving up

-Don't blink

-Re-birth yourself daily

(27) Ode to the Last Day of November

They said you would be colder.

They said I would be forced

to defend myself against you,

that your skies would be all gray,

and we would keep inside against

your almost-empty threats of rain.

So maybe it is just the schizophrenia

of California weather, exasperated

by the complex changes brought

by ozone giving up on us, but 

you are bright.

The skies behind the yellow leaves

shine friendly blue, 

and the chill that comes in 

through the window

only says hello.

Someone coming in from outside

mutters "lovely day";

it is confusing.

But I am too tired of fighting the cold

to be cynical.

So I just mumble awkward thanks

for this beautiful Spring day.

(28) Civil War

The armies come

all dressed up in opposing colors.

tension growing, 

they set their faces

hard like stone 

against each other.

They bear the dingy armor

of people who have been fighting

too long to remember why

and too long to forget their ways,

their pain.

They are turned invisible

faces obscured by iron grates

that keep them from seeing clearly, too--

far-sighted;

the other army grows more warped

as he comes closer.

The air that is trying to pry them apart

is collapsing.

They are meeting,

they are clashing,

they are writing

their own endings

here,

like this,

destroyed

together.

(29) Hard News

It's not as if you didn't know

that poetry would make you breakable. 

(30)Haiku for The Way Light Splashes Across Your Face and Makes Me Believe in Newness Again

Just one last poem

two minutes til December

time is part of nature

Reflection: I learned a lot about incompleteness and imperfection this month. I wrote a lot of terrible poetry. I've learned to rest in the tension of my own imperfection. I've learned that you can't manufacture inspiration. I've learned to suffer through the writing process in its absence. Not sure yet whether that's called discipline or bad art. We'll see when I look back later. Maybe future-me will find current-me inspiring. 

(25) Overactive Imagination

let us pretend
for a moment
that it is all science

that everything comes down
to applications of linear equations
and logical progressions

let us pretend
that it all makes
the truest sense

that the scramblings and intonations
happen on the passage
between the eye and the mind

let us pretend
and smile
as we pretend

let us grow giddy
at the thought that we
have never been so creative

(24) Broken Boy

broken boy
spent his days
trying to write
worlds more real
than his own

and when I say
that she was
one of those mythical people
who can make poems rhyme
without sounding cheesy

I imagine you think
you already know
how this story ends
or at least
how it middles

but
they never touched
they just
imagined each other
perfectly

(23) This Is Not A Simulation

This is Not a Simulation
For WorldVision's 30 Hour Famine

The sirens in your stomach
are sounding the alarm;
they are shaking you awake
to the state of emergency
in which your human family exists.

It is only 15 hours since eating;
only 16 hours since sleeping
     in the safety of your bed,
and it is already obvious how absurd--
no, obscene-- it is
to think that human beings
actually live like this.
People might as well be asked
to pack their things
and move into the ocean.

Because your little taste of emptiness
already feels like desperate starvation,
and the cold is cutting like knives
through your pathetic little blankets,
and the openness in which
      you are trying to sleep
has never seemed so fearfully alive.

And it makes no sense
that your only consolation--
that come tomorrow afternoon,
it will all be over,
and you can resume the business of living--
is flatly untrue
for almost a billion fellow humans.

You don't even want to think about this
as a perpetual state of existence,
can't even imagine not having that hope
to whisper to your stomach
to hush the alarm it is blaring:
this is a state of emergency;
this is not a simulation. 

Fridge Magnet Madlibs: (20) The Subtle Dancing, (21) The Subtle Crying, & (22) The Subtle Discovering.

In this episode of Poetical Shenanigans, Ely will punch her writer's block repeatedly in the face by creating a system of infinite poetry!

Here's how she does it!

FIRST, Ely creates a poetical framework that is at once fairly tonally neutral and yet somehow still powerful and evocative.

The Subtle (verb) ing

by Elizabeth Rhea

I (verb) into life

like a (verb) (noun)

forever (verb)ing across my vision

as if I had just (verb)ed

into the (noun/bodypart) of a (sentient being)

my (noun) carving spaces

in the (adj) parts of my existence.

Our (body part)s meet

in this (adj) place;

we are (verb)ing as one,

for this is our (noun),

this is our (noun),

this is our final farewell to (noun),

our coming into (noun) at last.

(I realize this second stanza sounds much sexier in template form than it does in most possible complete versions... who knew?)

SECOND, Ely adds fridge magnets-- a poetic ingredient that has so often stood by Ely in these dry times.

FINALLY, Ely fills in the gaps to create three poetic samples which are indicative of the infinite possibilities.

(20) The Subtle Dancing

I grow into life

like a spoken soul,

forever giving across my vision

as if I had just (flown)

into the chest of a friend,

my vision carving spaces

in the strong parts of my being.

Our voices meet

in this free place,

we are styling as one,

for this is our choice,

this is our power,

this is our final farewell to the ocean

our coming into sky at last.

(21) The Subtle Crying

I prowl into life

like a broken mystery,

forever slouching across my vision

as if I had just crumbled

into the hold of a shadow,

my trouble carving spaces

in the stranger parts of my being.

Our smells meet

in this metal place;

we are blazing as one,

for this is our bog,

this is our waste,

this is our final farewell to alarm,

our coming into spoil at last.  

(22) The Subtle Discovering

I tumble into life

like a wild giggle,

forever noodling across my vision--

as if I had just sneezed

into the potion of a wizard,

my charm carving spaces

in the frumpy parts of my being.

Our thoughts meet

in this clever place;

we are singing as one,

for this is our rainbow,

this is our flower,

this is our final farewell to stubborn,

our coming into friend(ship) at last.

The New World Movers

Here's a little introduction to my passion for the power of words. It's a practice TED talk, recorded for my class in 'Becoming a Public Scholar-Activist' at Claremont Lincoln University.

The New World Movers from Elizabeth Addison on Vimeo.

(18) The Problem and (19) Female Seeks Frankenstein

(18) The Problem

You try to turn your mind around to see inside your soul.
Now try to turn your eyes around inside your skull
until they find the brain behind it.
You see the flaw in your design?


(19) Female Seeks Frankenstein*

Wishful F, 21, seeks M, mid-20s,
who speaks like Jimmy Stuart,
thinks like GK Chesterton,
reads like Cornel West,
gets life like A.A. Milne,
loves Jesus like Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
fights for rights like de las Casas,
inspires like Dr. King,
cares like Peter Maurin,
writes like Bill Bryson,
laughs like Brian Reagan,
cooks like Jamie Oliver,
sings like Enrique Iglesias,
and looks...
like Enrique Iglesias.
Must have unique personality.


*Alternate title: The Other Problem. Today's prompt was a 'personal ad'.

(17) Daniel

He is standing
near the overpass
he is asking
cardboard questions
to the passers-by
and maybe it is
because his eyes
have stopped looking
for replies
or because he is
too young for this
but it is
that same swift inexistence
of all barriers
that must lead to first kisses
in different contexts
that draws me to him
and to the conclusion
that it would be nothing
to open a vein for his sake

I am awake
to the fact that his pain
is my pain
is Christ's pain
and it must be the gravity of this
that has me falling toward him

     I was never meant to save you, kid,
     but this is all I have: 
     a couple things to keep
     away the hunger;
     a couple words to keep
     away the sense of only-ever-this;
     and several minutes' conversation,
     a space in which you know I'll listen
     as you say the things you want to be
     and hear your own voice
     speak your name.

(15) Dress-Up and (16) First Impression

(15) Dress-Up

All it takes is a little bit of lipstick,
some shimmer-creme foundation,
a little light-blue eye shadow,
a touch of charcoal pencil,
and I become quite interesting--
to that guy I've passed a thousand times,
and everyone.
Back in the bathroom mirror,
I stand to face this stranger's face,
and think how they think
that this
is what I'm supposed to look like.


(16) First Impression

Halfway through my awkward introduction,
this older woman looks me in the eye
and tells me, soft but unmistakably,
You're a beautiful person.
And I wonder what she could have seen of me
in a span of seven seconds
to inspire such an interjection.
And it isn't that I don't believe her;
I just wish that I could see it
the way she does.

(14) Proud as Trouble

(13) 40 out of 41

(10) Driving Despair, (11) Haiku for Odd Hours, (12) Shanti of the Water

(10) Driving Despair

when you are finally tired
of all your excuses
and false attributions
and your comfort zone
begins to leave you restless
and the world you thought
you'd kept outside
finds ways to dig
its shards of broken pain
into your skin--
then, and only then,
will your languished muscles
and your vocal cords
finally be shaken awake


(11) Haiku for Odd Hours

Ely is tired
time has now snuck past midnight
there is no nature


(12) Shanti of the Water

As a River,
from one to many
and many to one,
each source a little spring--
simply different faces
manifestations:
this is the oneness,
this is the uniqueness.
Rivers empty into oceans,
lose their identities,
and become.

*a 'found poem' (snippets from a lecture from a Hindu speaker)

(8) Thomas & (9) Musing

(8) Thomas

You pressed your fingers deep into His emptiness
and believed that it would make you unafraid forever.
But you still wake up terrified
that the holes were the only real thing
about those hands
sometimes.
You wonder
what is to become of  those who,
though they see,
cannot believe?



(9) Musing

You sit in quiet spaces,
trying again and again
to find a few words
that will stick to the page.
You listen closely
hoping you will hear
your own voice drifting in
from somewhere far away.

(7) Grown

'I'm not a cynic, 'she said,
'I just don't believe as many lies as I used to.'

(6) Ladies in Waiting

Thank the Lord that we have made it past
our Disney spoon-fed fantasy, for we
have dared to dream inside of Jesus' magic Kingdom
and we've baptized our Prince Charmings!
Those worldly womens' worldly hopes
have nothing for us Princesses--
for the men that God has promised us
are handsome, rugged, helpful, wise,
considerate, articulate, artistic, kind, AND pious!
...now we just have to find them.
Good Lord, that's not the kind of guy
that one can just bump into on the subway!
But if this waiting is our greatest test,
we ought to guard our hearts a little extra
lest we're tempted just to settle for some peasant 
just because he's honest, true, and thoughtful
and understands the grace of Christ enough
to show a bit of it to us...
but thank Jesus we've grown past that.

(5) Conversation

She said, "Tell me something true."
He said, "Everyone is lying."
She said, "Why should I believe you?"

(4) Diary, 11/6/13

Invited poetry over for dinner today.
It seems that he had a previous engagement.
This is the third day in a row.
I suspect he's found another poet.

(3) The Care and Feeding of Your Poet, pg 44

"...and on nights when the lights in your poet's eyes
have faded into maybe-flickers
and she seems to be covered in some kind of distance
that you can't seem to reach across,
refrain from finding ways to try to make your poet smile.
Remember that her spirit isn't steel;
she's an alloy made of deepest sadness fused with deepest joy,
and that blending is the essence that first drew you.
So refrain from acting on your need to save her--
Just be present.
Put your arms around your poet gently;
tell her something small and true, if anything,
and remember that your silence will remind her
that your lack of cure could be the perfect remedy
for her lack of disease...."

(2) Memories of Bus Rides in the Andes

I keep opening my eyes
to endless expanses of river-snaked forests,
closing them to almost-dreams of nearly-poems.
Clouds keep spinning into fingers
that keep reaching for the mountain,
but only on occasion do we pass through one 
that has condensated condescendingly enough to touch us.
I'm the only foreign face inside this bus,
but the mountain knows that we
are simply momentary visitors--
tourists, every single one of us. 

Na(No)WriMo

I've tried to be a novelist. Ok, let's be honest, I've wanted to try to be a novelist. Fine, more honest-- I've tried to want to try to be a novelist. The summation of all of this effort is that I am not in a place to write 50,000 words in the next month. Ah well. I'll try to try again next year.

In the mean time, I'm going to do what I want. With chutzpah. Sooo, it's time for....

National Poetry Writing Month! Two! 

Poetic anarchy, you cry? Yes, I respond! Isn't it delicious? (Speaking of delicious, please note that the flag of the revolution takes tea as its top-left-most emblem. You're welcome.)

Yes, I realize that I'm probably going to be largely on my own here. I also realize that I'm already behind schedule; it's now 11 minutes into day 2 and I haven't even done my first scritching yet. (Well, except for this, and I'd say it's pretty damn poetic.) But I don't even care! I am SO excited to write 30 poems this month, and I hope you have a moment to nosily rubberneck on my daily collisions with literature's most ancient and best-tastic-est form. From the chilling soliloquies to the desperate 3am catch-up haikus, it's going to be... words. 

To start us off in the right spirit, here's the first:

(1) Whittled

They said that if you just learned to behave,

to memorize your steps

and keep your polished lips from lying,

some iridescent angel would descend

from some blue heaven

to re-make you as a real boy,

and you never expected anything less.

It was such a skillful way

to pull your strings.

We're Not Broken

National Poetry Month Favorites

To save you some scrolling and sorting, I've picked out my favorite poems from April's 30/30 poem-a-day challenge. The series are also put together. :)

The Contemplative Poems:

(10) Windshield Wipers

Maybe I am a broken poet
because I am not inspired
by windshield wipers
the pleasure of their gentle swish
evokes no deeper metaphors
rain is brushed aside
but not like I am brushed aside
or problems are brushed aside
or distractions
I do not trace the path of the rains
from condensation back into evaporation
off of lakes and sweating joggers
I do not write poems to the thump-screech heartbeat
or ponder the plight of drivers
who grow stiff in the precipitation
I only think of getting out
not dancing, or frolicking
just walking
watching dark spots on my shoes
head growing heavier with each drop

 

 

(27) The Holy Spirit Plays Acoustic

you
are not
a loud
speaker
you do not
surround
with sound
you do not
buzz or whir
or glow faint green
upon your activation
you do not apply your
post-effects or compressions
to equalize unsought uniqueness
you do not amplify yourself across a crowd
you are a set of strings that's stretched along the solid frame
to lend reverberation to the emptiness
you listen to the warnings
that you may yet be
drowned out
and you
play
softer

 

The Broken Poems

(7) You are loud and angry
How sweet it seems to curse the sky
hard fists like flags of no surrender
Clawing at infected roots
clearing forests to make way for tanks
and, when pushing buttons doesn't cure the need to level justice,
to use the trees as battering rams
against the doors of those that keep the weak as hostages
Snarling at the darkness that surrounds you
you will prevail--
you scream so to the thunderclouds
begging them to grace your face with bullet-rain
you invite everything which might provide a pressure
against which you can feel the thrill of resistance
It is always loney
It is always fighting against
and never
fighting
for
The only thing
you whisper is
I love you.

(9)The world is too much with us.

 

The world inside your pocket,
pain flits through your fingertips
in electric agony
images and voices screaming
Nobody cares?!
Nobody cares?
Nobody... cares...?
And lamentations fade into the hum of tragedy
and all emotion is white noise
and the poems grow shorter
the arguments longer
the jokes more pervasive/persistent/perverse
the people sleepier
fitful-sleep-ier
eyelids closing tight against the onslaught
blinders to block out a memory of a time
when it was only
Wednesday
in our city
that hurt us

(15) How We Fell

It was not
the seasoned ballerina's
delicate and choreographed
conversation with gravity

It was not

the head-high knee-drop
of the soldier who keeps
walking toward the bullets

It was not

the thrill-seeker's
rapturous rendevoux
with empty air

It was
the sudden clawing
wide-eyed slipping
of the child who knew
the branches were too thin
who heard father calling
saw how small he'd grown below
and just
kept
climbing.

(22) Apocalypse II

the world
has fallen
apart
and you are laying in the wreckage
you are gazing up past
broken teeth and jutting bones
of bashed-in homes
that don't remember
whose they were


you are breathless on your back
as cracks of fragment sky
decline your definitions
technicolor clouds are sprouting
flaming
aging gray
threatening to wash your dusted face
in blister-and-mutation rain
yet your mind has settled silent
in the dust of every thought
except
they are
so beautiful

The Playful Poems

(5) Apocalypse

Somewhere East of Chicago
in a badly back-lit basement laboratory,
A silver-haired scientist
wearing a long white coat and several significant initials
tells his bespectacled fledgeling assistant,

“Careful with that--"

 

 

(18) A Poem in the Oven

Somewhere in the back of the house

a frail voice calls,

“Careful, dear,

the last one was undercooked!”

(12) A Haiku for Sunday at 1:44am

Everybody knows
haikus are for the lazy.
Some care more than me.


Quitting Poetry:

(4) I quit poetry

There is too much immediacy
in cultivating experience
always living now, and now, and now...
my rose-colored/sky-colored/techni-colored glasses
make me cross-eyed
and I'll leave them by my bedside
to see my dreams in
but the morning is unmetered
and frequently means
nothing more than
electromagnetic frequencies

(6) I quit poetry again today

There is no relief
from the nausea of words
except for silence

(8) I tried to quit poetry again today.

There is no relief
for the nausea of words,
not even silence.

(23) I Quit Poetry for Good Today

I burned the notebooks and the fancy pens

and took down all the cyber-posts
I resigned from all the social groups,
and unsubscribed from daily readings,
canceled my subscription to three magazines,
and filled the feedback field with rants against their efficacy.
I did a small self-inventory
and found the places in the corners of my brain
where poetry was hiding,
pulled it from its niches,
gave it over to the fire.
The poems did not scream,
but sighed
as they became gray ghosts of memories.
But some sat quiet, resolute, inside the red skin of my heart
and though it hurt, I had no choice--
I left the wreck-rod in the flames,
then pressed it to my flesh
til each tattoo was cauterized.
And the silence that arose to fill the space the words had left
began to beat against the rhythm of
my steaming, scarring-over heart
and declared itself
poetic.

(The final installment, Giving Up On Quitting Poetry, came later. It's a Spoken Word, and there'll be a video up soon.)

The End

30 poems
30 days
accomplished

(27) The Holy Spirit Plays Acoustic

you

are not

a loud

speaker

you do not

surround

with sound

you do not

buzz or whir

or glow faint green

upon your activation

you do not apply your

post-effects or compressions

to equalize unsought uniqueness

you do not amplify yourself across a crowd

you are a set of strings that's stretched along the solid frame

to lend reverberation to the emptiness

you listen to the warnings

that you may yet be

drowned out

and you

play

softer

(28) Catharsis

maybe it is

bad poetry

but that is why

it was expelled

(29) Enveloped

In the event of some untimely theft

of all that you hold dear,

when your protests are kept quiet by assailing fists

and all your safety screens and double bolts

prove their worth as pretty decorations,

when the only escape from mourning is resignation

and there is no warm hand to hold,

when the world goes down your checklist

and fulfills your every fear,

what's left?

(30) –30-- : Alternate Titles

(The titles of all my 30/30 poems, combined with thirty references-- some obscure, some obvious. Maybe these will inspire totally new poems?)

Thirty Days Hath I Forgotten That I love You

Finally! Iv'e Heard of all the Keys of Western Music

Escape to M30

I Quit Poetry in September

Apocalypse of February 30^th

I Quit Poetry Again in June

You are Loud and Angry as United States Senator

I Tried to Quit Poetry Again in November

The Thirty Years' War is too Much With Us

Windshield Wipers on the Cars in the F-zero Franchise

The Hush of the Sarsen Circle

A Haiku for Sunday in 30 Seconds to Mars

All I Wanted was a Pearl

Biking Through Greece

How we Fell from Texas to Arkansas

I couldn't Trust Anyone over Thirty

Care fell into Oregon from New Jersey

30-minute Meals in the Oven

Paradoxical Postcards from the Trial on Neptune

The Fledgeling Flight of the Myth of Sissyphus

For Amanda Rhea on her 13-Going-On-30^th Birthday

Apocalypse II: 30 Days of Night

I Quit Poetry for Good in April

Talking to the French Department Gard

Confessions of 30 Pieces of Silver

Fears in Tavistock Square

The Holy Spirit Descends like an Acoustic Melody in the River

Catharsis on 30 St. Mary Avenue

Enveloped in Tricontagons

--30-- 

(25) & (26)

(25) Confession

You know

there are places in the world

where there isn't enough news-

paper to line the windows at

night to keep the cold from

leaking in.

(26) Fears

What if I wake up in the morning

and still don't believe it?

(24) Talking to Men

Woman,
get your eyes up off the floor.
Staring at your shoes isn't cute anymore-- 
in fact, it's attractive to men
who are looking for girls 
who don't believe they can change the world
or anything.

Woman,
you gotta stop shying away from every conversation
like it's setting the stage for questions of destiny,
cause if he's asking about compatibility before you even get two words in,
you do not owe him an answer.

And woman,
he doesn't owe you one, either
he is a living-breathing-brother-being,
not an exclamation sent
to counter-point your question mark

Woman,

quit looking in his eyes

like you're trying to find your own definition

like you don't actually know who you are

or where to run when you forget

Woman,

you gotta own that title

you are not a girl, a chick, a baby-doll,

you are strong as the long line of warriors that bore you

But woman,
Don't be too invulnerable in boldness,
cause this is not some high-stakes card game,
and if you play it like it is,
you must remember
that the upper hand will always be unheld 
and unholding.

(23) I Quit Poetry For Good Today

I burned the notebooks and the fancy pens
and took down all the cyber-posts,
 resigned from all the social groups,
and canceled my subscriptions
to digital daily doses
and three literary magazines,
--and filled the feedback fields
with rants against their efficacy.
I did a small self-inventory
 and found the places in the corners of my brain
where poetry was hiding,
 pulled it from its niches,
gave it over to the fire.
The poems did not scream,
but sighed
as they became gray ghosts of memories.
But some sat quiet, resolute,
inside the red skin of my heart
and though it hurt, I had no choice--
I left the wreck-rod in the flames,
then pressed it to my flesh
til each tattoo was cauterized.
And the silence that arose
to fill the space the words had left
began to beat against the rhythm
of my smoking, scarring-over heart,
and declared itself
poetic.

(22) Apocalypse II

the world

has fallen

apart

and you are lying in the wreckage

you are gazing up past

broken teeth and jutting bones

of bashed-in homes

that don't remember

whose they were

you are breathless on your back

as cracks of fragment sky

decline your definitions

technicolor clouds are sprouting

flaming

aging gray

threatening to wash your dusted face

in blister-and-mutation rain

yet your mind has settled silent

in the dust of every thought

except

they are so beautiful

(21) For My Sister on her 23rd Birthday

Because we rest inside the tension
      of weighty pain and buoyant hope,
because we're only floating
      on the surface of this life,
and because we're learning to harness
      all the wind that tries to blow us over,
we are, for the purpose of this poem,
      two boats.

And maybe we're in different oceans,
but that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like
to look at all your loved ones on the shoreline
and know you can't go back for them,
to know we can't go back to the bay
that used to hold us as we played,
where grown-up in swim trunks would splash
at safe but permissive distances
and laugh as I'd do anything you said,
cause you were my captain.

But we came into our own--
to each, her own boat,
her own sails,
carving her own trails through water
that never promised to be easy
but smooth sailing never made a skilful sailor,
like they say.
A good ship-mate is hard to find these days,
but don't forget you're sturdy as your mother,
free-wheeling as your father,
far-flung as your crazy little sister,
and smart as the sharpest captain I've met.
And you may not know where you're going,
but you'll make it.

(20) The Fledgeling flight of the Upstart Crow

(thoughts of graduation, reflecting on the college experience with heavenly (?) discontent)

Two weeks from the end
that everyone keeps saying is in sight,
and I'm not done yet.
Poured three years into this diploma,
but I've been thinking that it wasn't what we'd thought--
maybe college taught us that progress is relative,
or relatively meaningless,
that if we could just get a grip
on the fine art of flying
by the seat of of our washed-out jeans,
we would arrive,
that good enough would be good enough...
but what if it's not good enough?
What if our self-satisfaction has dragged us off track?
What if our lazy mid-week thoughts
are how we lost the opportunity
to stretch ourselves,
shake the dust out of our heads
and make them better places to live?
Maybe there is too much giving in
and not enough living in a moment that could grow us;
maybe we foretold our future when we said we'd make it,
but I don't want to "make it,"
cause my popsicle-stick constructions don't keep anyone safe
and my dilapidated battlements
do nothing to patch the cracks in my self-satisfaction.
I'm not after pats on the back
or awards on the wall
or excuses to stop moving,
and in a culture of accomplishments,
of measuring my height against imaginary averages,
I don't want to rise above the average.
I want the average to rise til I can't reach it.
I want higher standards,
kingdom answers to the question of who we're meant to be,
cause perfect rest in God will leave us restless
when we seek perfection anywhere else--
and he's
not done
with me.

(19) Paradoxial Postcards from Slumber Parties on Neptune: The Margaret Landon 21st Birthday Mashup

Paradoxical Postcards from Slumber Parties on Neptune:
The Margaret Langdon  21st Birthday Mash-Up
(For THAT friend)

Words by
Lucille Clifton
Propaganda
Shane Koyczan
Fun.
Owl City
Imagine Dragons
Eminem
Eboni
Michael Lee
Phil Kaye and Sarah Kay
Elizabeth Rhea

Girl,

you a wonder

you a city

of a woman

I don't know why I still try to wrap my mind around you

there is nothing basic about you

but I am beginning to see you for all that you are

Deep inside of you there's a ruby glow
And it gets brighter

and the wildfire inside (of) you inspires

but you are so much more than sparkle

(you) speak with Heaven's accent,

you move mountains with your words

and light up universes

(and) I want to be the one to put it in a song

(No), I can't sing, but
I feel like singin'

(cause you are) the single vibrant item in the black and white photo

Of the abundance of the heart, how few still speak

but you still dance with spirit

(you know that) our lives will always ever continue to be a balancing act

that has less to do with evanjellyfish churchianity

(and more about knowing) we should live until we die

(and we are) gonna live forever

(you who) dare to love this world not in the fake and shaking way it loves itself

but with the unrelenting love of its creator

Seeker of visions

You know lower standards will lower the culture

mighty yet meek, (you) raise the banner

your voice is small

but don't ever stop singing

sometimes (you) even sing when (you) speak

you may not be brazen, but you do not hear yourself as others hear you

Girl, you were born turning plowshares into swords

Don't hold back

(cause)

in the midst of the twist and turns and scars and burns

(you are) strong enough

to get down on (your) knees

and pick up the pieces of the heart (they) tried to break

(Yes,) This life will hit you

hard

in the face

Snap (you) back to reality, Oh

All this gravity will try to pull you down
But not this time

(you) won't give up that

Easy, no

you will put the star
in starting over
The path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell
(so) don't you ever apologize
for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining
And illuminate a world that'll try to bring you down

But not this time

(you are) a tree whose roots are strong and deep
and bear (you) up and keep (you) firm
through every storm that tries to shake (you)
you never quit in all your life

(but)no matter how wide you stretch your fingers
your hands will always be too small
to catch all the pain you want to heal

(there's times your) insecurities (might try to) eat (you) alive

(and maybe you) grew up believing that (you'd) never meet someone who'd make (you) feel like the sun was something (he) made for (you) in (his) tool shed

But I have seen the best of you, and the worst of you, and I choose both.
(and) if you can't see anything beautiful (inside you)
I want to be the mirror that reminds you to love yourself.
Or reminds you of your oceans while you're crying them
(that) boulder on (your) shoulder
gets heavy and harder to hold
(but) heavy wings grow lighter;
It's just a matter of time before we learn how to fly
I don't ever want to let you down
(cause) What are the odds of finding someone
who knows not to just to lend a hand or an ear
when you need them to give you their spine
(you are) that friend who's not scared to say when (I'm) acting stupid
Though poles apart in politics
me and you be sisters.
that's why... we've got to walk together
It didn't start with us
It started with Winnie-the-Pooh and Christopher Robin.
Bert and Ernie!
Abbott and Costello!
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!

Watson and Sherlock!

Pikachu and Charizard! And they could tell you what a miracle this is.

I don't need to be reminded that change is gonna come
This picnic will soon depart
But I swear I won't forget you
When I call you up so we can shoot the moon
we could stay and talk until three
(and) when you are old and can no longer remember my face
I will meet you for the first time again and again
(but) I think I'm ready to be here and now
(we) better capture this moment and hope it don't pass (too fast)
'Cause this is the future and (we) are alive
It's time to begin, Isn't it?