Revival!

Hello blog, I'm back! I'm down at my parents house, which is where I had the original inspiration to blog my old 7th grade poems, and naturally I spent a good part of last night looking through old boxes of school stuff and notes and whatnot. I found, literally, a treasure trove of poems. As in, apparently in junior high, I participated in a poetry unit in English class in which I created a treasure box and wrote poems on "gold coins" to put in the treasure box. It's good stuff.



I also found some stories I wrote in 3rd grade, many of which are hilarious, so I'll probably do a little sub-feature on this blog soon, "Stories I wrote when I was 8." Stay tuned.

In the meantime, from the Poetry Treasure Box itself:

The Visitor

A visitor from Orbitville came and talked to me
He said, "I saw a funny sight, and I'm not sure what it might be

I parked above a field of green, posts reached into the air
Beings wearing matching shirts, ran from here to there

These beings, they were quite a sight, their heads looked really odd
With cages across their dirty faces, and their shoulders so very broad

They threw a weird shaped object, and they ran and jumped about
And these other beings around them, would start to scream and shout

I don't understand this planet, it makes no sense at all
A bunch of giants running around, throwing a funny shaped ball!"

I laughed and told the visitor, "What you saw's not to be feared!
That event was called the 'Superbowl,'" and with that he disappeared.

I actually am rather fond of this poem...I think it's quite good! My favorite part is how the Orbitville alien was so put off (seemingly) by the Superbowl that he vanished from Earth, perhaps never to return. I guess I was never a huge fan of football.

The inside of the poem treasure box, showing the gold coin surrounded by other treasure-like accouterments:

This is the story of frog named Ed

Oh, hi blog. Sorry to neglect you, but I had better things to do for a while, like have a social life and watch season one of Mad Men. But I haven't forgotten about you completely, blog. Here is one of the first poems I wrote - it was always one of my favorites:

Ed the Frog

This is the story of a frog named Ed
He had a really ugly head
The other frogs made fun of him
But Ed didn’t care about any of them

Then one day a little bee
Came up to Ed and said you see
The other frogs don’t have a clue
As to what’s inside the real you

Well Ed was dumb, a real big dolt
And so he took off like a bolt
He dove beneath the water blue
Where he discovered something new

The other frogs weren’t really frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs
They were fakes and frauds, but really keen!
And obviously, very very mean

The fakes had captured the other frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs
They tied them up and gagged them too
And took them in the water blue

Those awful frogs were really mean
As Ed the frog had just now seen
So Ed untied his fellow frogs
Who sat upon a bunch of logs

And so despite his ugly head
This brave young frog that we call Ed
Has now become the forest hero
And the mean old frogs are worth less than zero

I told you things would turn out right
Exclaimed the bee with all his might
So even if your looks could shatter
It’s what’s inside that really matters

This is my 27th post on this blog! And while I'm nowhere close to out of material yet, I've probably already posted the majority of my best work from my 7th grade poem books. There are a few real gems left, but I can't promise that everything I post henceforth will be quite as brilliant as Billy Fuzz, The BSC, or Follow Your Heart. Some of the remaining poems are just cute little ditties, like this: (sung to the tune of "Oh My Darling, Clementine.")

Dirty Clothes

In my room, by my closet
There's a pile of dirty clothes
It gets bigger every day
And the end nobody knows

Dirty clothes, dirty clothes
Pick them off the dirty floor
Put them down the laundry shoot
Dirty clothes are no more

C'est fin.

Guest Blogger: The Cold Sheet Blues

Here's another favorite from guest blogger Isaac. If you want, read it as I do, and picture a young Isaac, curled up under his cold, cold sheets until the wee hours of the morning, desperately trying to get warm and penning this song.

Cold Sheet Blues

Stumbled into bed at a quarter to three
I’d come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee
Tired to the bone well here’s the news
I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Doing the refrigerator roll from left to right
No sleep in sight for me tonight
Counting sheep by ones and twos
Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

My covers are quite ample
For such a little runt
But how good can a comforter be
With Garfield on the front?

Teeth are chattering like gossiping geese
Why can’t my blanket be made of fleece?
Banged my knee now I’ll have a bruise
Oh, I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Numbers on the wall read a quarter to five
I need at least three hours to survive
What’s a man got to do to get a snooze?
Stop thinking ‘bout his cold sheet blues

Dayquil or Nyquil, which one to choose?
‘Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues
Those low down (yeah low down) downtown (yeah downtown)
Cold feet cold nose cold fingers cold toes
Cold sheet blues… yeah

Isaac promises that there is an actual recording of this song, and as soon as we can get it converted from cassette tape to digital format, I guarantee an audio blog of the "Cold Sheet Blues."

Hank the Heroic

Have I been negligent in updating this blog in recent weeks? Yes! Do I feel bad about that? No, I was on vacation and had better things to do for once. Will I return with another epic tale that pits greed against heroism? Of course!

Heroic Hank and the Missing Eggroll

Heroic Hank was quite a fellow
Although he was far from mellow

He cracked cases far and wide
He dusted prints and even spied!

But nothing, nothing, beats the case
Of what Hank calls the "eggroll race"

Now Chung's Chinese was quite the spot
Their food was fresh and spicy hot

But theft occurred one dreary night
A thief broke in with all his might

He broke into this place of food
(at least he wasn't in the nude!)

He looked around and then he saw
An eggroll, and he was in awe

He put it in a burlap sack
And then he snuck out through the back

Heroic Hank was called to the job
And he was followed by an angry mob

How someone could commit such a vicious crime
Was unimaginable to the average mind!

But Heroic Hank was used to this
And so he set out to find the eggroll that was so missed

Hank searched high and Hank searched low
In the sewer, Hank did go

But he finally caught on to a clue
A bit of cabbage stuck to his shoe!

Ah-ha! he said, I'm on to you!
For this bit of cabbage stuck to my shoe

Tell's me where this thief could be
He's hiding in a hemlock tree!

Hank was right and so he caught
That mean old thief who hadn't thought

About how important the eggroll was
And how the city had acquired an ugly buzz

I'm sorry, said the thief, in spite
Of the crime he'd committed that dreary night

It's okay, Hank said with glee
Everyone makes mistakes you see!

But do not fret and do not frown
Just apologize to the entire town!

And so he did and the eggroll was okay
And Heroic Hank saved the day

Heroic Hank must have impeccable deductive skills...I don't know how he figured that cabbage on his shoe would led him to finding the thief in a Hemlock Tree! If that's detective work, I'd make one crappy sleuth. I guess that's why he's called Heroic Hank and why I'm not called Heroic Julia.

A poem about a guy named Reuban

Reuban was a kid in one of my classes in 7th grade. He was pretty non-descript, wasn't particularly cute or interesting, but I was really intrigued by a guy who was named after a sandwich. So I wrote a poem in his honor!

Reuban

Reuban oh Reuban, what did you do?
Your poured guacamole into my shoe!
You kicked a chicken nugget into the tub
You gave a giraffe a belly rub

You pickeled asparagus, carrots, and cheese
You opened your mouth and out came a sneeze
You bought a ferrari, it was maroon
But then you drove it through the wall of my room

Reuban oh Reuban, why, tell me why?
Did you throw some baloney into the sky?
It bounced off a cloud and fell in a pit
I'm beginning to think you are a nit wit

You stepped on an ostrich that fell on the ground
You had a gold fish and named it Sir Zound
Reuban oh Reuban, where did you go?
Was it Berlin or New Mexico?

Reuban oh Reuban, you puzzle me so.

Not actually the subject of this poem.

If I had actually been friends with Reuban, I might have showed him this and he might have liked it. Or he might have been creeped out. It's a moot point, because I don't think I had ever actually talked to the kid. I don't even know what his last name was! And I think he disappeared sometime after middle school, probably to Berlin or New Mexico. But it's a cute tribute, and it's a shame he will never see it!

"Darkness is like a dark shadow"

In what was obviously a particularly profound moment in my youth, I wrote this poem:

Darkness

What is darkness?
Darkness is no light.
Darkness is like a dark shadow being cast over you.
It is not knowing what to do.
That is darkness.
Darkness is cruelty.
It is a strange creatures taking away your freedom.
That is darkness.

I wonder what was going on in my life to inspire this poem? As I've previously stated, I don't recall my early adolescence being that tortured. But I suppose this is a reminder that we all experience....the darkness!

New Guest Blogger: Too good to wait...

My new friend Isaac offered to share some of his teenage poetry and it's pretty amazing. Certainly lives up to the standards held on this blog for embarrassing adolescent versification. He has graciously shared many, many fine poems, which will be revealed here over time, but for his first guest post, I have to go with the one that made me laugh the most.

Untitled (by Isaac)

I once met a clown with a button red nose
Who said I'd meet a girl with a face like a rose
I snapped his suspenders and went on my way
All the while chuckling and saying "That'll be the day"

Well old clownypoo had a bit too much seltzer
And chased me down with his giant feet of thunder
"She'll have eyes like diamonds" he said with a start
I replied "Not freakin' likely, you senile old fart"

But the polka-dotted pauper, well he was persistent
And nipping at my heels he was in an instant
"She'll make you smile every time she talks"
I thought he'd had too many whiskeys on the rocks

So onward I went with speed, but so too did he
"She'll lump your throat and weaken your knees"
Trying to act macho, I said no woman could do that
He smirked and said "She will in two seconds flat"

So I asked old clowny how he knew so much
"I guess I was born with a magic touch"
I said "If you're so great, why've you got this job?"
He replied "My girl came and went, and now I'm a slob"

The regret in his eyes told me that it was true
So I bought us some coffee and a table for two
And the man laid it on me, a tale so somber
His empty-hearted words stay with me forever

"I had my chance and was too blind to see
I feared she loved another, and gave up easily
Don't do the same, my reluctant companion
'Cause that girl, I tell you, will be one in a million"

Now this young clown would like to say
He knows just what the old guy meant that day
Be my girl, make my knees weak
And let me smile every time you speak

Man, what I would have done to have access to the intimate inner-workings of the male teenage mind when I was in middle/high school. Thanks Isaac, for finally satisfying my curiosities!

Guest Post: Guacamole Highway

Ok, this next poem is by Guest Blogger Genevieve. It's also about food. And it's a song! Sung to "Every Day is a Winding Road" by Sheryl Crow. And here it is:

Cruisin' on the Guacamole Highway

I've often driven down that guacamole highway
Those guacamole fishes give me a smile
I got behind their guacamole school bus
And we were driving for quite a while
Eat those corn chips
Look up, and smile at the fish
All the fishies are high
All the fishies are low
I can't say more, 'cause that's all I know
Every road is a guacamole road
Drive a little bit faster.
Every watch says a guacamole time
Drive a little bit faster,
We're feelin' fine.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I had another weird obsession in 7th grade. It was with guacamole fish. Yes, guacamole fish. I don't even know what that means at this point, but apparently, when I was 12, I thought the idea of a fish made out of guacamole was all the rage. Whatever, I was a weird kid. But at least I wasn't alone in my weirdness; thank god for a friend who would write songs about guacamole fish with me.

Happy O-naugeration Day!

In honor of this momentous, historic day, I share with you this little piece, a strong statement on foreign affairs:

The Attack

Why is it such a cruel world
That we all can't get along?
Nuclear weapons, missles too
Their effects are just so strong

Innocent people are dying
At the expense of one sick man
In the country of Iraq
Which is neighbors with Iran

What's with all the violence
Why the blood and gore?
First the bombing, then what's next?
Perhaps another war?

Maybe it's the only way
To stop Saddam Hussein
A man who won't cooperate
And is perhaps a bit insane

The attacks are for a reason
This I know is true
I just wish there was something else
Then violence we could do

Maybe I should lend this to President Barack Obama to help him figure out how to smooth other the various foreign wars and kersnuffles we're currently dealing with. I'm sure he'd find it pretty useful.

On a lighter note

For those who need a respite from the lovesick poems of late, here's a fun little rhyming one, in honor of my friend Olivia, who lives in New York, and of Ryan, who was just in New York.

The Emu That Went to New York

Did you hear the tale of the emu that went to New York?
Or how 'bout the giraffe that ate salted pork?
Or the zebra the sneezed
And ate glowing cheese
Or the warthog that ate with a fork?

But emus don't travel, so this can't be true.
The giraffe part's a lie, just like the emu
Zebras don't sneeze
Or eat glowing cheese
And warthogs just fart a lot. Pew!

Awww, it's two limericks back to back in what makes for a very cute poem. I approve, 12 year-old-Julia!

Guest Blogger: A Treatise on "The Crush"

Genny is back and better than ever with another guest blog post. For those of you wanting a little more background on just who this guest blogger is, read on:

Genevieve began her poetry career at the wee age of 11 when she was better known as "Baloney." Since then she has obviously escalated to bigger and better things in life, and these days she's pretty classy. She attended Washington State University in Pullman where she learned a few things, among those;
1) how to sled down an icy hill in a rubbermaid bucket
2) how to exploit the disability van for rides around campus
3)Don't EVER drink ANYTHING blue.
In her free time she enjoys finger puppets, Phil Collins, swedish fish, and sledding to the 80's, which is similar to sweating to the 80's, but without the sweat.

So with that in mind, put yourself in the shoes of young Genevieve, who so aptly summarized the wistful pining we all expereinced with our first (or second, or twelth) big middle school crush, and I think you'll be able to relate to where she was coming from.

Crush

Have you ever liked someone and wanted to tell them, but you weren't sure that you could? Have you ever wanted them to know it, but weren't sure if they should?
Have you ever felt like there might be something, but decided otherwise?
Have you ever wondered why it was him, instead of one of the other guys?
Have you ever not really understood what made you feel this way?
You know what you want to tell him, but you're waiting for the right day.
You know it really is what you want, but it's so out of your reach,
Why can't it be someone easier?
But maybe the reason it seems complicated, is because there's a lesson to teach.
One I haven't learned yet, but really should.
And even if it doesn't turn out right,

The lesson I learned was good.
I wish that I knew everything, so it would be this way,
I could make it a lot easier, but I wouldn't know what to say.

Why I am liking him seems complicated in my mind.
Maybe it's because I wish for someone who is one of a kind
Who can understand when I need it a lot
Who doesn't have to be super hot
Who likes me for the person inside
And isn't out to "get a free ride"
Who would always respect me through and through
Someone like that would be really cool.
Also hard to find and imitate, but anyone close would be worth the wait.

And Genny adds that this poem is "dedicated to 'Donovan Mitten' (secret nickname for middle school crush) who I last saw sitting on a random porch with everyone else I used to know in high school, drinking keystone light from a can with a broken car parked in the yard."

Hmm, sounds like he might not have been worth the wait.

Sappy Poems 2: Sappy Meets Angsty

By request of Kim, another "sappy poem," although this one also crosses into "teenage angst" territory. I'm not going to spend a bunch of time analyzing this one, just make of it what you will.

The New Girl

Ever since day one
The girl did not belong
Her shoes were strange, her hair was weird
Her style of dress was wrong

Her jeans were just a bit too tight
Her shirts were big and kinda bright
Although her appearance was rather rough
She seemed nice, but it wasn't enough

Everything she said or did
Was turned into a joke
Everytime a crack was made
She thought that she would choke

The kids just did not realize
How mean they really were
Until the teacher told them
The shocking news about her

She was found in the basement
A bullet in her head
For due to all the teasing
The new girl now was dead.

Sooo...I have no idea where this came from. Some poems I very vividly remember writing, others I do not and am surprised to stumble upon them. This is one of those. I mean, WTF....I promise I was a pretty happy kid, as far as tortured 7th graders go. Probably this was another Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul-influenced poem. Pretty harrowing!

Introducing: Sappy Poems

I have withheld posting my really sappy, angsty, and/or morbid poems so far, because, well, they're embarrassing. But after a great poetry slam with friends in Portland two weeks ago, in which I had the courage to finally share some of these poems with other people, I realized that I'm sitting on a gold mine. I kid you not, these poems are hilarious. I was trying so, SO hard to be a serious poet and break away from my hokey-animal-tales style. But mostly I think I had just been reading way, way too much Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul (omg blatant Christian undertones!) and desperately wanted to relate to the stories of romance, heartbreak, and devastating loss that were so dramatically told in the Chicken Soup books. So I wrote poems like this:

Follow Your Heart*

She wasn't the most popular girl in school
She was nice, but to some she was considered "uncool"
Pretty in her own unique way
She was shy and quiet; had not much to say

He was smart and handsome, kind and tall
Good at sports and liked by all
He took special care of the things he loved
Whether it be a friend, or a baseball glove

She watched him from afar one day
She kept to herself and stood away
She noticed his eyes, a sparkling blue
Hers drawn to his like super glue

"I bet he doesn't even know I exist,"
She sighed, but how she longed to kiss
The thought of his lips upon hers
Made her smile, but she didn't have nerve

To tell him how she really felt
She thought it better left undealt
She went to her locker one week later
To drop off her books and grab some paper

She opened it up and to her surprise
A single rose lay inside
"Funny," she thought. "No tag or name.
I bet it's just a stupid game."

When she turned around, to her surprise
There he was, a look in his eyes
They've been together since that day
Their wedding is just weeks away

True love is found, it goes to show
In places that you'd never know
Follow your heart, stick to your dreams
And finding "the one" isn't as hard as it seems

OMFG I cannot believe I wrote those words!! And I can't believe I just admitted to writing those words, and then put them on the internet. But really, it would be selfish of me to keep that to myself, when I could be making people laugh. Or at least I hope you are laughing as much as I do every time I read that sappy poem, because it is not meant to be taken seriously. I mean, I assume that when I wrote it, it WAS meant to be taken seriously, imagining that I desperately longed for this to foreshadow an autobiographical account of some dreamy guy that would leave me roses in my locker. Although as it turns out, I did date this one guy in 10th grade who would always send me roses in class, and it was really awkward and obnoxious having to carry that crap around school all day. But how could I have known that in 7th grade!

So there you have it. 12-year-old Julia at her most vulnerable and exposed. If you think that was good, just wait. It gets better....

*In the actual poem book, the word "heart" is written as <3