"Home”

After what used to be a six hours of driving, our family’s red van crawled down the only road that I ever called “home”. The first step in the house was the most cherished. One could always smell the reminisces of grandma’s cooking that spoiled the air. Shortly after arriving my sister and I would always stride to the end of the dock and just sit, sometimes for hours. Just taking in everything God had to offer. We would watch the wet paint drip from the sky only to smear the perfect sunset. The white swans would peacefully glide across the bay like water ripples on a calm day. Ducks by the number would make their way over to us from the island that formed to the right of our house. Across the bay there was a beach and we would watch the little kids and their moms pack up for dinner and migrate home. I can remember the young boys throwing sand at their moms in procrastination. I remember those moments when I was little and how I treated my mother when she would have to drag me home. The beach over the years though has become my Eden Nothing could go wrong and it never did. Although the thin soft sand in my bathing-suit every now and then was reasonable reason to go home and change (but that was always about it).
Eventually seven o'clock rolled around and Jillian and I would prepare for the night. Preparation for the night” was not the same as up north. Hot water was scarce down the shore and with six people or more in a three-bedroom house, showering was limited. A simple wash down of shampoo and soap was all that was permitted. No time to shave and such. No time to sing. No nothing, just in and out. After about an hour the two of us were ready, which was pretty impressive considering all we had to do. Walking out of the house with our hair entangled in a bun, large sweatshirts covering our bodies and a cheap pair of shorts was all we really needed. No one really got dressed up dow there. People did as they please and no one tried to impress anyone (which was great!).
A few houses down from ours stood a large yellow house. My best friend David lived there. David and I had been best friends since we were babies He was that guy that I could always count on for anything. He was a tall, goofy, sophisticated kid that everyone loved. He could get any crowd laughing. Well anyways, once we got David the three of us than would go down a few more houses and pickup our other good friend Gina. Gina, well now she is tall. She stands 6’2. So she basically towers over us all. From there we would walk everywhere. Some people would think that that sucks having to walk everywhere, but down the shore that is all anyone ever did. And had we ever needed to go into Sea Side we would take a taxi, but otherwise we walked everywhere.
After picking Gina up the four of us walked to the beach. Eventually we were there and we just sat there waiting for the night to unravel. Every night something new would happen. Either we would end up walking down to the boardwalk, which was visible from where we sat. Or sometimes (and by sometimes I mean most times) we would just sit up at the tope of the beach and drink. But whatever ended up happening I can assure you it was not boring, because New Jersey was an eventful place and we were always going to live that idea.

A Free Soul

A child laugh frees
An adult’s soul trapped inside
Bound by importance


The Going and Coming Atlantic

Blue water crashes
Sweeping up on the soft sand
And going back in


A Seasonal Monster

Fast it sweeps across land
Picking up all in it’s way
She comes and she goes

June 28th

Standing still,

summoned by fear.

Dark dandy-lions stand as shadows in the sky.

And I am still alone.

Bright Milky Way star’s illuminate the sky like New York City lights.

And I am still alone.

The refreshing summer breeze sweeps my backside

And I was still alone.

Something crunches in the leaves behind me.
A slow figure coming my way.
My heart b-e-a-t-s
My hands sweat.

I am no longer alone.

First Catch

I had my brother’s old beat up board, blue boarding shorts and a few friends. The five of us stood there on the shores of New Jersey, staring out at the unpredictable. Joe to my left, his beach blonde hair flew with the wind and Jeff, with his big muscles was to the left of him. Chris and Dan both stood to my right grasping onto their black wetsuits and Sex Wax (I always loved the smell of that stuff). Like hard covered books hitting the floor, the waves came clapping down. The reminisces of summer lingered in the air as I took each breath in meditation. We then traversed through the sand, boards in hand, leashes leashed, and sprung ourselves into the mystical blue. The October water engulfed me as I tried to adapt to the rather brisk Atlantic. Struggling to get out because my duck dive (a move where one pushes the board and themselves under the water) was not yet perfected and the turtle (a move where one turns the board over with themselves underneath) wasn’t really effective. However, after being pushed back a few times I eventually made it out. I made it to the place where the boarders can sit all day, without a care in the world- a place that eventually becomes home to us “beach bums.
The sun was beating down on my salty back, creating a shiver to run form my toes to my beach blonde hair. Looking around at all the other guys with their dreads, strained chests and piercings, I felt a feeling of security; internal peace. I glanced over my other shoulder only to see the men fanning their way to shore. I cocked my head around, like an owl, and there is stood towering over me, Mother Nature herself. Stunned by the force of nature coming my way, I sprawled out on my board and made my way over what seemed to be the end of my life. Once over I only discovered another one on it’s way; I turned around, shore ahead, and began to paddle. I was ready, plant or plummet I was ready. It was gaining. I felt something hit me, and afraid that I hit someone I sprung my head backwards, only to see my friends gesticultaing to look forward. I straightened out. THen it came to me. My arms had stopped shredding the water, but I still remained in motion. I was surfing. Besides the fact that I didn’t even attempt to stand up, I was surfing!
Nearing the shore, I came to think that the old man was right, “once bit by the surfing bug you’ll never want to leave.’ I didn’t want to leave after that first ride, and come to think of it, I never did.

Running River
A brook steams down south
Running water whispers
Rolling against the rocks

WHITE OCEAN
Close in, cracking cold
Still alone the earth bubbles
A white cloud at sea

The Loudest Sound in the World

The loudest sound
is the sound
one is waiting to hear.

A sound that one is used to,
and just disappears.

A noise that one is expecting,
and than never comes.

The loudest noise in the world
Cannot be hear, but can be expected/

A sound that had died.
A noise that has left.
A sound that’s never coming back.

Alone

Ostracized, isolated, alone
She stands in number of one.
A tall beautiful girl
With no one to hug
No one to talk to.
The eyes strike her,
like a knife slicing through a pear.
She breaks down
and runs away
From everything she knows

Because not even her shadow will walk beside her.

Robert White Creeley

Bibliography:

Robert White Creeley was born in Arlington-Symmes Hospital in Arlington, Massachusetts on May 21, 1926. He was the son of Dr. Oscar Slade Creeley and nurse Genevieve Jules and a brother to one sister. When Creeley was young he lost his father and in addition to that faced difficult challenges with only having one eye, having lost the other in a car accident. Creeley was raised on a farm with his mother and sister and took on the obligations of being the man of the household. When he was fourteen he was granted a scholarship to Holderness School in Plymouth, New Hampshire. In 1943 Creeley graduated and went on to continue his education at Harvard Universty, where he made a few of his first publications in the school papers and journals. However, the young poet dropped out the following year to serve in World War One where he worked in the American Field Service driving ambulances around in Burma and India. Creeley returned home two years later and reenrolled into Harvard but instead in 1995 he took his Bachelors Degree from Black Mountain College, a school known for it’s art education and practice. After receiving his diploma he resided in Littleton, New Hampshire for a while working as a farmer on his own land. In 1951 Creeley and his wife, Ann, and their three children picked up and moved to Mallorca, an island that is associated with the Balearic Islands. Here Ann and him established Divers Press, and within three years of their business they had published over a dozen literary pieces. Throughout this time Creeley also taught at Black Mountain College and also continued to serve as a valid editor of the Black Mountain Review, as he did when he was a student. Through 1958 and 1961 the successful Creeley taught at Albuquerque Academy, an all boys school. In 1962 he went to teach at the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque, where he had gotten his masters in 1960. Through 1963 and 1986 Creeley traveled America teaching and lecturing at various universities such as: the University of New Mexico (1963-1065), State University of New York at Binghampton (1985, 1986), State University of New York at Buffalo (1967). Throughout Creeley’s life he had made several publications one of his biggest was in 1962 with his piece For Love: Poems 1950-1960. Some of his other works include: Poems 195-1965 (1965), Words (1967), Away (1976), Echoes (1982), Mirrors (1983), Memory Gardens (1986), The Company (1988), Later (1979) Myself (1977), About Women (1966), Hi There (1965), The Boy (1968), Mazatlan (1969), Two Poems (1964), Distance (1964), The Whip (1957) and If You (1956). In addition to Creeley’s poetry publications he also had published several essays and fictional short pieces like: The Island (1963), The Gold Diggers and Other Stories (1965), The Collected Prose (1988) and The Collected Essays of Robert Creeley (1989). In recogniztion to all of his works Creeley received many awards such as the Bullingen Prize (1999), the Lannon Lifetime Achievement Award (2001), the New York State Poet (1989) and the Robert Frost Medal (1987). two of the Guggenheim Fellowships and the Shelley Memorial Away.

Books:

Some of Robert Creeley's publications include:

[1] Le Fou (1952)
[2] The Immoral Proposition (1953)
[3] The Kind of Act (1953)
[4] The Gold Diggers (1954)
[5] The Gold Diggers and Other Stories (1965)
[6] A Snarling Garland of Xmas Verses (1954)
[7] All That is Lovely in Men (1955)
[8] If You (1956)
[9] The Whip (1957)
[10] A Form of Women (1960)
[11] For Love: Poems 1950-1960 (1962)
[12] The Island (1964)
[13] Words (1967)
[14] Poems 1950-1065 (1966)
[15] The Charm: Early and Uncollected Poems (1971)
[16] Robert Creeley Reads (1967)
[17] A Sigh (1967)
[18] Divisions and Other Early Poems (1968)
[19] The Finger (1970)
[20] 5 Numbers (1968)
[21] Pieces (1969)
[22] Mazatian (1969)
[23] In London (1970)
[24] A Quick Graph: Collected Notes and Essays (1970)
[25] 1234567890 (1971)
[26] St. Martin’s (1971)
[27] A Day Book (1972)
[28]Listen (1972)
[29] For My Mother: Genevieve Jules Creeley 8 April 1887-7 October 1972 (1973)
[30] His Idea (1973)
[31] Inside Out (1973)
[32] Thirty Things (1974)
[33] Backwards (1975)
[34] The Door (1975)
[35] Away (1976)
[36] Hello (1976)
[37] Presences: a Text for Marisol (1976)
[38] Mabel: A Story (1977)
[39] Thanks (1977)
[40] Later: A poem (1978)
[41] Later (1980)
[42] Echoes (1982)
[43] A Calendar 1984 (1983)
[44] Mirrors (1983)
[45] The Collected Prose of Robert Creeley (1988)
[46] Window (1988)
[47] The Company (1988)
[48] The Collected Essays of Robert Creeley (1988)
[49] Dreams (1989)
[50] Places (1990)
[51] Windows (1990)
[52] The Old Days (1991)
[53] Selected Poems (1991)
[54] Life and Death (1993)
[55] Loops: Ten Poems (1991)

Mood:

A Feeling of Love: A great number of Creeley’s poetry express this feeling of love. A love that is simple and pure, not complicated and unknown. Take for example two stanzas that come from Creeley’s poem “The Rain”, “Love, if you love me,\ lie next to me.\ Be for me, like rain,\ the getting out\ of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-\ lust of intentional indifference.\ Be wet/ with a decent happiness” (KLEINZAHLER, New York Times). Here he speaks to his lover and tells her to be like rain, something so authentic and natural. Most of Creeley’s poems address these matters of love. his poems are very personal and are his devoted emotions to his friends and family. Critic Louis L. Martz explains Creeley’s poem The Finger” as a deep apprehension of love he goes further to say, “Here [in the poem] the finger turns out to be the mind reaching out from ‘that time [when] I was a stranger’ toward the apprehension of woman as an abstraction of all the ancient mythological qualities named Aphrodite or Athena; not a woman, then, but rather the varied presence of woman-ness” (Arbor, 241). This thought that is presented to the audience if rather big and deep but those are Creeley’s poems for you. The idea a woman is so extraordinary is presented in the poem “The Finger” in the following lines, “She was tall with\ extraordinary grace. Her face\ was al distance, her eyes\ the depth of all one had though of,\ again and again and again.”

A Feeling of Isolation and Fear: Even though Creeley’s poems discuss these feelings of adulation and passion towards particular people he still wraps his thoughts and imagery around this inkling of mere fear of isolation. One particular poem that exemplifies this notion is in his poem “Language”.


Locate I


love you some-


where in





teeth and


eyes, bite


it but



take care not


to hurt, you


want so



much so


little. Words


say everything.



I


love you


again,



then what


is emptiness


for. To

This excerpt from the poem “Language” goes far to say that Creeley’s thoughts are bound up by images and feelings of isolation and seclusion. Here knows that there is someone out there for him but he can not find her and only at this point in time he feels alone.

One other poem that does a good job demonstrating Creeley’s thoughts of alienation is in the poem “Somebody Died”. The following stanzas demonstrate a figure whose mere being is to be alone and whose passing image just appears to be nothing more but a passing person:

What Shall we know we don’t know,
that we know we know we don’t know.

The head walks
down the
street with
an umbrella.

People
were walking
by.

The image that Creeley creates in this poem is remarkable. It is such a simple creation, nothing too extravagant yet manages to convey his feelings of despair. One other poem that does a good job in doing this is “The Act of Love.” His words again are very simple. He does not elongate his ideas or his thoughts, he is very straightforward in his writings.

In

bed I yearn
for softness, turning
always to you. Don’t,

one wants to cry,
desert me! Have I
studied

all such isolation
just to
be alone?

MOVEMENTS:

Robert Creeley along with all his other fellow writers were part of the “Projective Verse Movement”. The idea in the movement was to replace the traditional poetry that was being written at the time. Charles Olson, a distinguishable American poet, labeled this type of poetry and also gave it other names such as “Open Composition” or “Composition by Field”. The idea behind Olson’s term was to allow more relaxation and freedom within writing. And his idea later became an inspiration for all following poets. However, in addition to this small movement Creeley became a influential poet in the American Poets.

SIMILAR ARTISTS:

Charles Olson, Robert Duncan, Allen Ginsbery, John Wieners, Denise Leverton, Lary Eigner and Edward Dorn.

INFLUENCE BY:

The distinguishable poet was influenced by partner Charles Olson, another American Poet who took part in the same movement. Creeley looked up to him when he was just starting and eventually formulated a bond with him and eventually had the opportunity to work with him in his writings.


FOLLOWERS:

Robert Creeley was one of the most influential poets of his time and he had a great impact on the future of poetry. He was not afraid to be different and took the chance to be and in return changed the world of poetry. his poetry shaped the minds of the group of poets in the New Critics and this included artists like F.R Leavis, William Empson, Robert Penn Warren, John Crowe Ransom, Cleathe Brooks, T.S Eliot and R.P Blackmur.

WORKS CITED


Creeley, Robert W. So There. New York City, NY: New Directions Company, 1998.
Faas, Ekbert. Robert Creeley: A Biography. Montreal , Canada: McGill Queen's UP, 2001.

http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/authors/creeley/bib.html
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/24/books/review/Kleinzahler-t.html?ei=5088&en=c4d04c3bbcfe48ab&ex=1361509200&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss&pagewanted=print

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Critics

http://project1.caryacademy.org/echoes/03-04/Robert_Creeley/defaultcreeley.htm

http://www.diacenter.org/prg/poetry/87_88/creeleybio.html

http://www.poltroonpress.com/creeley.html

http://www.lib.uconn.edu/online/research/speclib/ASC/findaids/Creeley/MSS19780008.html#d0e56

http://www.albany.edu/writers-inst/webpages4/archives/creeley.html

http://www.lib.uconn.edu/online/research/speclib/ASC/findaids/Creeley/MSS19780008.html

Walking Out

Frozen cold
She stood there on the mat
Her jaw tightening
Her throat closing
The tears where pushing through.

She took a bow and walked away
The judges said it all
with A NINE, A SIX and A SEVEN.
Maggie was good,
but not good enough.

Certain she was not qualified,
Not talented enough to move on.
With that, Maggie walked out
Out of the gymnasium
And out on her dreams.

Story Continued...

One afternoon Wes was in the yard pulling weeds when Chef drove up in front of the house. It was around three o’clock and it was a little to early for him to be returning home from work. 

“Everything O.K?” Screamed Wes from across the yard, “you are home a little early!”

“Yea. Yea. Everything is o.k. Just thought I would take the rest of the day off.”

“Is that so,” I said chiming into the conversation.

“Yea. I think I am going to head up to visit my sister for the weekend. You guys be o.k here by yourselves?” he asked. Wes and I stared at each other from across the yard and with a smile he turned to Chef and said, “We will be just fine.”

It had not been an hour until Chef was back in his car and making his way up north. I knelt down next to the garden bed I had been working on for the entire day and simply continued my work. The hot summer sun was beating down on my back and I could feel it frying my skin. Overwhelmed and exhausted I slowly stood up and looked over at Wes who was diligently constructing his water-fountain for Chef. “I am going to head inside and start making dinner. Get out of this heat.”

“Why don’t you just go upstairs cool, off and take a shower,” he said to me as he stood up and admired his accomplishments thus far. “Don’t worry about cooking tonight, I will get it.” Smiling, I nodded and turned around and made my way inside. I went to the kitchen sink and washed my hands clean and than prepared my bubble bath in the back room.

An hour had passed as I sat there enjoying my solitude. The hot water had me feeling faint and the lavender smell of the bubbles had begun to make me nauseous. Feeling as though it was time to get out and enjoy my time with Wes, I head a knock on the door. Quickly wrapping my towel around me, “Who is it?”

“It’s Wes hun, I just wanted to see if you would be ready in like ten minutes for dinner?”

Surprised, I said, “yes,” and than quickly made my way to my room to get ready. Pulling out my best clothes from the closet and throwing them on I than braided my hair and threw it back into a loose pony. Grabbing my make-up bag I plastered some bronzer on and diligently did my eyes, making them POP. Misting myself down with the new perfume Wes had gave me I looked in the mirror one last time and made my way downstairs, where Wes had been waiting.

He stood nervously in the corner of the dining room. The lights were dimmed and the candles flickered, casting shadows across the room. The smell of Italy lingered in the air. “Please sit,” he said escorting me to the side chair that he than pulled out.

“Thank you,” I said looking up at it, “Thank you for everything. It is all so beautiful.” The table was set for two. Four candles lined the surface and fresh flowers from the garden stood as the center piece. It was just breath taking. Wes nodded and headed back into the kitchen where he turned the music down low. A few minutes later he brought back a huge bowl of speghti and a tray of garlic bread. He set them on the table and then reached for my napkin and put in on my lap. Handing me the spoons he said, “dig in before it gets cold.”

Hungry I threw some meatballs and speghetti on my plate and began eating. Wes and I did not talk to much, we kind of just looked at one another nervously- uncertain as to where or what we were to do after dinner. Eventually I found myself with a bottle of wine by myside resting in his lap on the front porch.

“Beautiful night,”

“it is,” I said. The cool summer breeze sent chills down my spine and I reached behind for the blanket which was folded over the swing. Wes took it from me and gently covered me.

“I told you I am doing better,” he finally said.

“You are,” I said turning my head back to look him in the eyes. He squeezed me hard and held me there for a few seconds.

“I messed up hun, I know I did. I lost everything I had, and now that I have the one most important thing back in my life, I promise you, you will never see that old Wes again.”

Certain and believing in his words I took his hand that was sitting in my lap and brought it up to my face and kissed it. “I love you,” I said.

“ I love you too. I am sorry,” He said back.

“It is ok, let’s just put it in our past and move forward to fixing it from here out,” I said.

“Sounds good,” he said bending forward pressing his lips to my forehead. “I love you.”

I smiled and slowly picked up my blanket and walked inside. Before closing the door, I turned around and said, “I love you too. I am sorry it is just cold out. Want to go upstairs?”

Surprised he jumped up and quickly ran in snatching me as he ran by and shutting the door behind him. “Of course,” he breathed out, running up the stairs with me over shis shoulders. Laughing he threw me on the bed and started tickling me. I pushed him away for a second and took a breath. Everything was perfect. I had made no regrets of leaving everything behind for this one chance that Wes might change. And he did, and I saw it in his eyes that this was how it was going to be forever.

Poetry is and is Not

[1] Poetry can be simple. And it can also be complicated.

[2] Poetry is a method of expression.

[3] Poetry has no boundaries.

[4] Poetry has no rules, no roads just guidelines

[5] Poetry can redefine a meaning and it can also just define a meaning

[7] Poetry can be the backbone to English or it can just be another flower in it's garden.

One More Bone

She sat on her bed,

her head inflamed. 

A little black dress

and some left over cocaine.

Her world was spinning

and the walls were cracked.

The drugs were winning 

and the strength she lacked.

Her hands were shaking

and she began to sweat.

The room was moving

and she did not fret.

She knew she was safe,

she knew it would be fine.

She just needed more

so she did another line

Her eyes were twitching

her nose began to burn

still craving that shit

she did a little more

bent over, and fell to the floor.

above image was found at: www.desiretoinsprice.blogspot.com/2007_03_25_archives.com

Her Name Was Autumn

Naked she stands

bare to the bone.

Cold and empty

As if shaken to death.

The color and life that once lived

has gone.

And all she had rests below her.

Her Name is Autumn

Full of life she dances

She dances in the wind.

Swaying back and fourth,

to the clapping of the wind.

The Tangerine and the Poster

Mom: Excuse me! Have you seen my little Tangerine? Oh my poor boy! He has never left his basket before. Oh my!

Officer: Madam! Please calm down. When was the last time you have seen him?

Mom: Yesterday! Sir, he has never left home before. I am scared, please find him! Really!

Officer: O.k. Well can you please describe what he looks like?

Mom: Yes! Yes! He is a young boy. Probably a couple of weeks old. He is smaller than most boys. He has orange tinted skin. Short brown hair, kind of more fuzzy than hair. If he actually has any hair...

Officer: ...Thank you. That is enough. Does this character sketch I just drew up look like Tangerine?

Mom: O my gosh! Yes it does thank you.

Officer: Your welcome. We will hang it around the city as soon as possible and we will find your little boy!

--------

It hangs

A character sketch

A poster of a Tangerine.

Small, orange and dangerous,

out on the loose.

A wanted fruit.

--------

"Lock your doors!"

They scream.

A dangerous felon on the run.

A criminal to society

Killing many

a deadly fruit.

The poster of a Tangerine.

--------

Pressure of the Eye

It moves with every tick

that eye.

What did I do?

It stares, it watches

hazelly dark, squinting

it gazes.

The Beautiful Actress

actors and actresses gather round

close your heart and ignore the sound

the sound of a crying soul

the sound of a dying goal

you gave it all up with his touch

and with his touch you lost so much

you lost your strength to move on

what you had is all gone

you sit inside and wonder why

as people wonder why you cry

ou ignore the calls form you friends

thinking all along that this is the end

you forgot about your desires

and you feel so uninspired

hopeless and sensitive you sit

feeling as though all you can do is quit

you act as if its all alright

but your giving up without a fight

i can see inside you

and all i see is blue

a blue soul, a blue heart 

all i am feeling is apart

I want you to tell me how you feel.

I want you to quit the act and be real.

I know that it hurts you deep inside,

but, with me you can confide.

So here I am by your side,

ready and able to be your guide.

Take a tissue and dry those tears,

because you giving up is my biggest fear.

Together we will unit as one,

reminding you that you are not done.

This is just a little bump in the road,

and you are just carrying a heavy load.

But talk to me and let it all out,

its not worth it to stay in and pout.

Life awaits you and all you can be,

just open your heart again

... and you will see. 

Drip

Water drips from the ceiling

and into a bucket. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It is a constant,

drip,

drip,

drip.

I can not sleep.

Bare October

October,

Brisk air fills the lungs

As small smoke clouds fill the air on each exhale.

Orange, yellow, brown and red leaves,

decorate the trees like ornaments.

Crystal flakes blanket the ground.

And it is just morning,

the sun has just woke.

A Simple Scene

Draw me a picture

Where there is a rainbow

A rainbow whose end,

ends at a pot of gold.

And at that pot of gold-lepricans.

Lepricans dancing in a field,

In a field where that rainbow ends.

And in that field-wildflowers.

Wildflowers blanketing that field,

that field where that rainbow ends.

Draw me a picture.

With wildflowers in a field.

A field with lepricans dancing,

dancing next to a pot of gold,

where at the pot of gold,

 

a rainbow ends.

Fear

The breeze that once was has gone asleep

And the child's laugh hibernates

No one moves feet rooted to the ground

The human voice has withered out

And everything is still

Everything is still for a picture

The baby's cry has dwindled 

And dad's snore remains a memory

As the sun shines down

The sound of one man's heart subsides

The rustling leaves have been put to rest

And grandpa's whistling has expired

As the eyes wonder around

The dog's bark has ceased

Reading Response

Percey Bysshe Shelley, author of, "A Defence of Poetry," defends Joe Wenderoth's piece "Letters to Wendys". Shelley mentions in her piece, "Reason is the enumeration of qualities already known; imagination is the perception of the value of those qualities, both separately and as a whole," which applies directly to Wenderoth's writings. In "Letters to Wendys" he writes from the first person perspective every single day from a year. He brings his readers to a normal place, a place that we as American's have become very familiar with; having all eatten in the fast food nation. However, not only does he take us all to a common ground, he turns the normal view of things and sees something else; he sees this imaginary world within Wendys. He sees Wendy as a little girl whose common to life. He sees Wendy living with him in many sexual fantasies. He sees things that we ourselves have never seen. And this is exactly what Shelley says is the difference between reasoning and imagination. It is the state of mind that turns reality into fantasy, it is the transition from real to imagination.

I Can't Think of A Title, So This is my Title

A fresh new page

Boy do I have writers block

Words won't come to my head

Forty minutes passed

And still no words

Is this going to be finished on time?

What is the time?

Still nothing is on this page

I'm only thinking of inappropriate words

God do I hate this writers block.

Forty-five minutes have passed.

Where are the words that live in my head?

Are there any words in my head?

I really can't think of any at the time!

Fifty minutes have passed

I now have a dog that i drew on my page

I wish I could kill writers block

I am thinking I should make up words

Yes, I want to be that person that makes up words

That way I can use any word that comes to my head

But no, I can't and thats why I am suffering from writers block

Oh great, I'm running out of time

At least now I have some words down on this page

An hour has now passed.

Oh shit, really an hour has passed!

Come on, brain think of words!

I killed that stupid looking dog that I drew on this page.

Now that stupid dog I killed is in my head!

Get out you stupid dog, I don't have time!

God damn you, you writers block!

I seriously am going to kill writers block!

Seventy minutes have passed.

I wish I could stop time.

No, no better yet, I wish I could think of words.

I wish I could poke a hole in my head.

That way all the words can fly out and land on this page.

"Rip up this page", says my writers block.

Someone poke a hole in my head, eighty minutes has passed.

Today I freaking hate words and thats it I'm out of time.

My Personal Balado

My personal balado

is a place of my own

it's a home for my dreams

it's the grounds for my thoughts.

it's a refuge for my fears.

My personal balado

is my own creative world.

it's a place where I can run.

it's a place where I can rest.

it's place where I can stay forever.

My personal balado

is lead by me.

I am the dictator 

And I am people.

My personal balado

is my own personal space.

ONE

Dear Mother Teresa,
Your last letter has been a surprise to me. I have never in my life have been so embarrassed. I apologize if you see my actions as sinful; however please note that it is uncontrollable. I do not see stealing the delicious cereal as evil. If I can come clean about anything I would like to confide in you about a little secret of mine. I believe I have an addiction, an addiction to that scrumptious fruit-flavored cereal. It drives me crazy. I need it. I must have a bowl of those Trix for every meal. My diet has become very unbalanced these past years. All the other rabbits are ashamed of me. I am the only one who does not like crunchy carrots or stiff grass. I need help. I don’t know what to do. I am having trouble being accepted and accepting myself for who I am. Then I get a letter from you telling me that my actions are sinful. That stealing from little kids is wrong. And it is too a certain extent, but only if you could understood. I can’t live without it. I would never hurt the child. I just want the cereal, like I said before I need it. Please help me. Tell me what I should do. I need your assistance. Please do not look down upon me for this, I can’t control myself. I hope all is well and that we can arrange a time to get together. Have fun in Ethiopia this coming week.

Sincerely,
“The Trix Rabbit”