The_Embroiderer's Xanga

It's Been Awhile...

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 01:58:40 GMT

Christmas lights bathe worn
upholstery in the same same still
glow, snow is falling

down and away like
time, scattered so softly on
all the branches and rooftops.

Notice

Wed, 01 Oct 2008 15:13:35 GMT

Written: 12:10 p.m.
NOTE: Out of necessity.

With the start of school, I am finding less time to post on my xanga site, as some of you might have notice. In an effort to keep content fresh, I have been posting little things, pulses, etc...and I think this is affecting the quality of the work that I post. I have decided that, instead of trying to post as frequently as possible even if I don't have anything specific I want to post, I am simply going to post as I as I find time to finish the works that I actually want to post. I will log in regularly to read the posts of others, and to comment, message, etc...I just posted a review recently, and hopefully more poems and stories will be up soon. Happy posting.
If you've any questions, objections, suggestions, etc...just let me know.

A Review: Eugene O' Neill's "Long Day's Journey Into Night"

Tue, 30 Sep 2008 00:58:16 GMT

Written: 9:38 p.m.
~

Eugene O' Neill, one of the most acclaimed playwrights of our history (author of such works as "The Iceman Cometh, and "Moon For the Misbegotten"), wrote one of his most famous plays, "Long Day's Journey Into Night", later in his career, completing it only some years before he lost the ability to write completely. Poetically written, and scorchingly personal, "Long Day's..." is a saga of the rarely spoken tragedies that both hold together and rip apart a family (more specifically, the Tyrone family) in all of one day. Darkly cynical and at the same time beautiful in it's simplicity, O' Neill commands his character's forth from the pages to encircle you with their thoughts and feelings in ways never before imagined in a dialogue. In a careful balance of description and omission, the world of the play is unfurled in all it's glory and horror within the minds of the attentive and imaginative and leaves one speechless with emotions both joyful and sorrowful, flying through the pages in anticipation and dread of the conclusion.
"Long Day's Journey Into Night", only one of O'Neill's masterpieces, is a breathtaking feat of representation humanity at it's rawest state. I highly recommend this play, as well as O'Neill's other works to not only theater enthusiasts, but to lovers of language and the human experience as a whole.

Tid Bits

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 01:25:05 GMT

Written: 10:20 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Music has a way
with emotion, though I find
with you I play flats.

~

Cookie cutter way
with words, your honey coated
sonnets won't win me.

~

Bring me flowers made
of paper, 'cause your little
labors won't wither.

Haiku

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 20:52:57 GMT

Written: Just now.
NOTE: Whim.

That breathless feeling
right before you go over
the hill? That is you.

A Ride Home

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 20:33:51 GMT

Written: 5:20 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Water sloshed through
My premature sandels
In the cool September dusk,
Flushing away stray pieces of summer
In dirty running water
I peer from royal purple haze
Through the softened cotton of
A worn damp sweater pulled
Futilely over a couple of books
Clutched like a child in my
Warmer arms
You glance from your
Battered bicycle at my
Bowed head, your
"save the planet" bumper
Sticker splayed over the
Handlebars in proclamation
Of your cause.
So kindly you smile upon
My rouged lips and
Hurried steps
You wished you'd
A car to keep me out
Of the shower
To keep me by your side
For some stolen moments
But your two wheeled
Transport slips cleanly and
Quietly across the flowing ground
Past my oblivious lips and
Hidden eyes so bright with
Your silent hello.

Thing of Beauty

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 20:22:02 GMT

Written: In progress.
NOTE: Same as "Lenora", let me know if you think I should continue writing it. Thanks. :)

Sylvester Pullman was not very nice. In fact, in many people’s opinion, he was quite the opposite. One might be able to say that not one person in his entire life so far who’d had the opportunity to speak with him, even his own parents, had one good thing to say about him.
“Mark my word,” his aunt had whispered to her daughter at Sylvester’s birthday party when he was just eight, “that boy will turn out to be no good.” This was remarked right before Sylvester socked one of his guests in the face for playing with his most recently unwrapped gift. That was one of the many birthday parties that were cut short, all of the children who were invited being angrily pulled away by their fearful parents.
Throughout Sylvester’s life, many people considered feeling sympathy for him, but just before they decided to, he went and did something terrible and they refused to associate themselves with him any longer. At least, that was generally the pattern of things, until Clara came along, but that is not of immediate importance.
What is of immediate importance is when, on the nineteenth of May, standing over the body of the late Clara Carthwright, Sylvester fully realized his reputation (which was not at all unjustified), and also realized the seriousness and complete hopelessness of his predicament.
It was the truth that Sylvester had not intended to kill Clara. He knew it, but he also knew that she never would, and that it would take a miracle to convince the people who would need convincing. The last place that Sylvester wanted to go back to was jail.

Whimsy

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 00:07:34 GMT

Written: 9:02 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Cellophane rainbows
Sweetened with vanilla and
Lavender in the golden shadow
Sky upon the glass seas and
Sandalwood shores we walk
And dip out feet into the
Dancing ferns of bright
Feathers in the wind
That whistles through the
Stars and envelopes the
Moon
Gently catch my hair on end
And pulling me into you
I've told others of our
Whimsy evenings and
Softer mornings
But they all think I'm high
How can I express the intoxication
That is love but only whisper in
Your ear?

Another Bit

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 00:31:20 GMT

Written: 9:29 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Food tastes better and
skies seem brighter, birds sing clear
all because you're near.

A Little Bit of Poetry

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 00:39:45 GMT

Written: 9:37 p.m.
NOTE: Whim.

Bits and matter whirl
around the pull of heart's hope
against mind's logic.