June 26th

1. Okay, crazy one
2.         Pause for one second
3. Take a deep breath
4.         And calm your senses
5. You have to count backwards
6.        Probably from ten
7. And all will be well when you get to the end

6/30/2014
Riley Welch

Favorite Friday

In addition to writing to improve my poetry, I am also trying to read more poetry. I am going to start posting my favorite poem I find during the week each Friday. I hope you enjoy!

Hyacinth

By: Louise Glück

Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand

like a club at the walk; poor slain boy,

is that a way to show

gratitude to the gods? White

with colored hearts, the tall flowers

sway around you, all the other boys,

in the cold spring, as the violets open.

There were no flowers in antiquity

but boys’ bodies, pale, perfectly imagined.

So the gods sank to human shape with longing.

In the field, in the willow grove,

Apollo sent the courtiers away.

And from the blood of the wound

a flower sprang, lilylike, more brilliant

than the purples of Tyre.

Then the god wept: his vital grief

flooded the earth.

Beauty dies: that is the source

of creation. Outside the ring of trees

the courtiers could hear

the dove’s call transmit

its uniform, its inborn sorrow—

They stood listening, among the rustling willows.

Was this the god’s lament?

They listened carefully. And for a short time

all sound was sad.

There is no other immortality:

in the cold spring, the purple violets open.

And yet, the heart is black,

there is its violence frankly exposed.

Or is it not the heart at the center

but some other word?

And now someone is bending over them,

meaning to gather them—

They could not wait

in exile forever.

Through the glittering grove

the courtiers ran

calling the name

of their companion

over the birds’ noise,

over the willows’ aimless sadness.

Well into the night they wept,

their clear tears

altering no earthly color.

Maybe

It would certainly be feasible
Or conceivable
But probably not obtainable
Only done imaginably
Perhaps or perchance
Or weather permitting
Might be
Could be
Or we certainly can be
All I can say is maybe.

6/25/2014
Riley Welch

Untitled

Green, streaming light
Bursting through cracks
That were not meant to be there,
Supposed to be seamless,
But cracked
Flawed-
Stretching far from its containment
Out and Out.
Streaking past shadows
Shattering.

6/22/2014
Riley Welch

Day to Night

Standing on the solid sky – early for her arrival

Growing bright as lights dim on the opposite horizon,

As shadows stretch and then the sky –

To purples and pinks and oranges,

All the living let out a sigh

Of coolness and of shade

And gasp for rehydration from the redness of the day.

The deep colors of the sun dance upon the edge of the Earth

Only to be suffocated by the dark black of her;

So the stars can come to sparkle and tell stories in the sky

Providing a deep slumber under night's watchful eye.

3/20/2014

Riley Welch 

Sunday Morning Music

Gliding keys and moving feet,
Happy songs and grooving beats.
Thudding bass drum sounding strong,
In-between notes, short and long-

Goosebumps lifting to the curve of music,
Booming, vibrant, ringing, acoustic;
Steady picking fingers dance delicately
Along with chantings, ever rhythmically.

The easily impressed,
over (and under) dressed,
old and bold,
young and gold,
Take to the floor to unfold the tunes
Because to musics' solid beat no one is immune.

When the band packs up and the crowd's no longer there
The music's sweet hum still hangs in the air.

6/22/2014
Riley Welch

Night to Day

Dim, Dew, Darkness,
Lightening to a marbled blue gray painting.
Redoranges, yellows,
Signs of gates let open
Petals turn their gaze to welcome Apollo to the day. Roaring out closed channels,
Bright fire licking air,
And breaking guarded horizon of dusk to dawn.
Dew drifts from leaves to kiss the airs new warmth.
As the fingertips of day reach to illuminate the sleeping sky 
And the rays wipe away the starry dust from morning's eye.

3/18/2014
Riley Welch

Busy Streets

Wow oh wow

Look at the world now

Shining and bright

Not always right

People pacing and quick

But not sharp in wit

Laughter full of sweet

Loud and soft, inbetween. 

6/17/2014

Riley Welch 

25 Minutes

This poem was written for my grandmother. The first letter of each sentence spells out her initials: BLPW. 

Breeze kisses the grounds' soft grass,

greeting the Earth in a light tickle,

raising petals and leaves like hairs on the nape of your neck. 

Laughter-like rain sprinkles across the soil- 

the literal watercolor dance from dirt to sweet, well mud. 

Pitter patter hums break only for thunders' jolting impact,

and sing through all illuminating flashes. 

Wet doughy terrain melts underfoot, 

cradling a newly dampened shoe sole, rich for a new beings breath. 

Part Two

Let me paint you in words

Made from happiness spit from my fingertips 

Bursting Stitches Smiling 

As laughter lifts from my light lungs

And feels its way into the air, singing bliss

Verse after verse into a warm perfect evening

Outstretched arms greet my painting in gentle ease

Barely there

6/10/2014

Riley Welch

Sweet Summer

Feel the sun's warm finger tips push gently on your sweet eye lids,

Flickering. 

Blue

Yellow

White

Sunshiny,

Happy,

Seek the shade.

And feel the cooling sweat sticking to your back

And the breeze licking against the delicate hairs on the edge if your neck

Lay back-down, toes up. 

Smiling at the leaves lazy shade. 

Return to the fiery sun

And let it wrap you in its summer whisper

Dive into a creeks shallow bank

And bury yourself in the waters crashing cradle. 

Wrestling with the grass stains and street dirt. 

But then close your eyes and remember the

Blue

Yellow

White

Sunshine

6/10/2014

Riley Welch

In the Kitchen

As the soft steam lifted from the pots boiling mouth
The flames leaped to catch its metal edge
And inside the warmth cooked its sweet foods
To make a soft bite of warmth
Seasoned and plated so delicately
Set on a table, dressed in clothes and fine silvers
With light lit candles
And sweet small flowers
Decorative and inviting
For the presentation created by a burning flames work.

A Stab at Haikus

Work never felt so,
Long, boring, tedious, flat,
Just five more weeks left.

The length of a line
Is not chosen by letters
But by your breaths shape.

one two three four five
one two three four three two one
five four three two one

A cool calming pitch
Rings bright over a grand crowd
Who gathers for sound

Obvious

The metal patter of the rain,
Continuous.
The long streaks of splattered serum,
Continuous.
The droplets building to puddles,
Continuous.
The shatter of thunder,
And flashes of white light,
Staggered.
The crack of a branch,
Hits the ground top to base,
Random.
The endless winds push,
Continuous.
The break of the rain-
Of the wind-
Of the pitter patter-
Of the loud crashes and white heat-
The end or beginning-
Continuously.

5/24/2014-6/2/2014
Riley Welch

Under the Influence of Caffeine

A jittery heart rate.

With fingers attempting what is usually called steady,

Though they give an urgent twitch.

And your legs tap continuously,

As the heel lifts up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.                       

And you try to steady finger tips,

As they cradle the pen that pushes to paper,

A rolling ball of ink to spread

Your shaking words.

As your mind ticks from one.

Point.

To.

The.

Next.

Thinking faster than the words will sink to the paper,

Dying to be heard,

Immediately.

Too impatient for the slow pull of your jerking fingers.

Pushing out of your mind and into your hand.

Before you even know what you’ve thought.

And once it’s all been painted on

Ruled paper.

Your shaking palm pauses to push that last sip of morning coffee to your lips.

6/2/2014

Riley Welch

My Favorites

Sweet rhyming poems are my fallback,
I go to them when my alternatives crack,
When things just don't sound right,
And the words don't come together, bright.

I want all my words to shine, reflect,
Like they fit together perfectly correct.
So people say, "Yes, they go in that order,
Any other pattern creates chaotic disorder".

And when I can see it's not coming together,
I switch to rhyming, a different type of endeavor.
Making sure each line makes sense
and not sacrificing quality at any expense.

And words just sound pretty rhymed in pairs,
Like they belong without spares or repair.
And the rhythmic chanting of each line
Can be predicted by every end rhyme.

6/2/2014
Riley Welch