brittneybrannum - Hello Poetry

Pale denim overalls cover the bear waiting for Sarah to return from an MRI; polished shoes and white coat speak to the four-year-old's mother. Child embraced, parted lips radiate smiles. In Teddy's ear she whispers, "It's all gone."

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Feb 27, 2014

Feb 27, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC

Sarah's Hope

Pale denim overalls cover the bear waiting for Sarah to return from an MRI; polished shoes and white coat speak to the four-year-old's mother. Child embraced, parted lips radiate smiles. In Teddy's ear she whispers, "It's all gone."

10

We should all be able to recite Dickens's famous line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness"; and many of us can finish this J. Austen quote, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that." If these authors, whom we have proclaimed through the ages to have produced some of the greatest writings we have known, used a passive voice to tell their tale, why then do we now state to the same audience that voice is an evil so great that the flowing cloud of ink from neither pen nor printer can be allowed to touch their paper with its words?

0

Feb 23, 2014

Feb 23, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC

In Defense Of Passive Voice

We should all be able to recite Dickens's famous line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness"; and many of us can finish this J. Austen quote, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that." If these authors, whom we have proclaimed through the ages to have produced some of the greatest writings we have known, used a passive voice to tell their tale, why then do we now state to the same audience that voice is an evil so great that the flowing cloud of ink from neither pen nor printer can be allowed to touch their paper with its words?

13

Facing the dedication plaque of The East Coast Memorial in Battery Park, sat a navy spiral bound with a worn post-it note upon the cover. Head slightly tilted, I scoff at the carelessness of some kids. Intending to toss the book into a bin we keep at the office filled mostly with hoodies and socks – don’t ask me how you lose just one, ’cause I don’t know— I look down upon the cover in my left hand and notice this phrase, written in a young girl’s script, “Please take me home, share your journey, then pass me on;” and I am struck by the naivety of these words. Flipping the cover open, my eyes are then met with, “April 24, 2001 My name is Samantha, and I live in Moneta, Virginia. I’m twelve years old and enjoy science…” What am I supposed to do with this: a child’s attempt at unifying the world? Turning the page, the date was now September 10 of the same year, and the story is of James, a homeschooled old boy from Richmond, flying up to Colorado to visit with his dad. Tossing it on a terminal chair near a flight bound for LAX it was found by a twenty-something named Megan, meeting her twin who had just finished his second tour in Kuwait. The new mother briefly skimmed the pages while waiting for her brother, then penned a piece about who she dreamed her daughter would become: a surgeon, particularly that of the heart. Becoming intrigued by this woman, I sat down on the nearest bench and continued their tale. Seeing John’s flight arrive, the diary was placed into her pack to be carried home, before she rushed to greet her closest friend. Four years later, while cleaning out boxes for a New Year’s resolution, the journal was thought of and Megan left in the Kroger basket while she gathered the ingredients to make her great-grandmother’s vegetable soup. On his way to pick up medication for his father, a history professor saw it next. Adding a short account regarding his focus on minorities and women in American History, Dr. Clark handed the spiral to his niece, who was heading towards Manhattan to visit her grandfather. After a five hour flight, an orange duffle bag was placed upon a hardwood floor. Tales of life left on the living room table, Amy settled in for the night. A veteran of World War II, Walter is eighty-seven years old and takes his life moment-by-moment because that was the only way to survive with bombs exploding and friends falling dead on either side. Though he rarely spoke of his time in Germany, as he sat before a carved eagle, like he had every morning since its dedication in 1963, he thought about the men who served under him. And in this notebook, he wrote their names: every man in his unit, who did not come home. Entrusting their stories to another, he finished his walk. Staring down at this last entry, my mind forgot how to think. I was overwhelmed that this diary of a twelve year old girl had somehow managed to become a memorial to those killed in action. Silent moments passed, and with bound letters still in hand, I thought about my niece, who lives in Virginia, about fifteen minutes from this girl called Samantha. I wondered if they had ever met and if that child had the slightest imaginings about what passing on her tale would become. And yet, what was I supposed to write? How could I follow the somber courage left behind by this man? And then, as if lighting had flashed above my head, my body jolted with realization that my tale was theirs.

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC

Reminiscence

Facing the dedication plaque of The East Coast Memorial in Battery Park, sat a navy spiral bound with a worn post-it note upon the cover. Head slightly tilted, I scoff at the carelessness of some kids. Intending to toss the book into a bin we keep at the office filled mostly with hoodies and socks – don’t ask me how you lose just one, ’cause I don’t know— I look down upon the cover in my left hand and notice this phrase, written in a young girl’s script, “Please take me home, share your journey, then pass me on;” and I am struck by the naivety of these words. Flipping the cover open, my eyes are then met with, “April 24, 2001 My name is Samantha, and I live in Moneta, Virginia. I’m twelve years old and enjoy science…” What am I supposed to do with this: a child’s attempt at unifying the world? Turning the page, the date was now September 10 of the same year, and the story is of James, a homeschooled old boy from Richmond, flying up to Colorado to visit with his dad. Tossing it on a terminal chair near a flight bound for LAX it was found by a twenty-something named Megan, meeting her twin who had just finished his second tour in Kuwait. The new mother briefly skimmed the pages while waiting for her brother, then penned a piece about who she dreamed her daughter would become: a surgeon, particularly that of the heart. Becoming intrigued by this woman, I sat down on the nearest bench and continued their tale. Seeing John’s flight arrive, the diary was placed into her pack to be carried home, before she rushed to greet her closest friend. Four years later, while cleaning out boxes for a New Year’s resolution, the journal was thought of and Megan left in the Kroger basket while she gathered the ingredients to make her great-grandmother’s vegetable soup. On his way to pick up medication for his father, a history professor saw it next. Adding a short account regarding his focus on minorities and women in American History, Dr. Clark handed the spiral to his niece, who was heading towards Manhattan to visit her grandfather. After a five hour flight, an orange duffle bag was placed upon a hardwood floor. Tales of life left on the living room table, Amy settled in for the night. A veteran of World War II, Walter is eighty-seven years old and takes his life moment-by-moment because that was the only way to survive with bombs exploding and friends falling dead on either side. Though he rarely spoke of his time in Germany, as he sat before a carved eagle, like he had every morning since its dedication in 1963, he thought about the men who served under him. And in this notebook, he wrote their names: every man in his unit, who did not come home. Entrusting their stories to another, he finished his walk. Staring down at this last entry, my mind forgot how to think. I was overwhelmed that this diary of a twelve year old girl had somehow managed to become a memorial to those killed in action. Silent moments passed, and with bound letters still in hand, I thought about my niece, who lives in Virginia, about fifteen minutes from this girl called Samantha. I wondered if they had ever met and if that child had the slightest imaginings about what passing on her tale would become. And yet, what was I supposed to write? How could I follow the somber courage left behind by this man? And then, as if lighting had flashed above my head, my body jolted with realization that my tale was theirs.

61

golden i r c c e l d r o p s to floor ... quickly eaten by dog

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC

Breakfast

golden i r c c e l d r o p s to floor ... quickly eaten by dog

11

In this limited mother tongue by which I communicate to you, all I can call it is love. Cannot express through the utterance of a single word, if a father holds a daughter in his arms for the first time with a smile like the glowing light of the full moon, looks at his wife and says, you're both so beautiful. This thing we call love cannot articulate the husband and wife, who married as teenagers have been together for seventy years: stood by each other, with barely any food, thanked God for what they had; and when he could no longer stand, then she would pause beside him. Nor can it show the heart struck newly weds eager to be just like them. Love does not express the emotions of adolescence. Doesn't define a deceleration with flowers, chocolates, or teddy bears. Nor tell me if we're in a Romeo and Juliet fin'amour named true love. My language has been redefined through technology and celebrities. But fundamental element, binding our souls is spread so thin, how could be defined?

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC

One Word

In this limited mother tongue by which I communicate to you, all I can call it is love. Cannot express through the utterance of a single word, if a father holds a daughter in his arms for the first time with a smile like the glowing light of the full moon, looks at his wife and says, you're both so beautiful. This thing we call love cannot articulate the husband and wife, who married as teenagers have been together for seventy years: stood by each other, with barely any food, thanked God for what they had; and when he could no longer stand, then she would pause beside him. Nor can it show the heart struck newly weds eager to be just like them. Love does not express the emotions of adolescence. Doesn't define a deceleration with flowers, chocolates, or teddy bears. Nor tell me if we're in a Romeo and Juliet fin'amour named true love. My language has been redefined through technology and celebrities. But fundamental element, binding our souls is spread so thin, how could be defined?

27

Underneath the Australian sun, we have begun to gather wallaby grass for the night's fire. It hasn't signaled anybody, but scorching flames keep the wild dogs at bay. Losing count, four nights, I think, have now passed. Mother and father must be ill from worry; we've never been far this far out before. Amidst play of seek and hide, Frank went in search for the perfect spot -- a fairly good one as it took two hours to find him-- but night arose, and father's compass had been left upon the porch's rail. A few days later, we managed to find a small amount of water, but it won't last with three of us; and I can already see the exhausted expressions carved upon my brothers' faces. Though Isaac continues to search, I believe even he shall soon relinquish the hope that rescuers will arrive. It's been a week. At what point will the police discontinue our search? When a month has passed? With no food and the last drops having evaporated onto our parched tongues before the sun was set, how could we survive that long? But the question wandering deep within my mind is, “Does anyone even believe we are alive?” Perhaps it is not worry our parents are now suffering, but grief. Though I cannot tell the boys of my suspicions, nor can let them see my fatigue

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC

Wandering in Wimmera

Underneath the Australian sun, we have begun to gather wallaby grass for the night's fire. It hasn't signaled anybody, but scorching flames keep the wild dogs at bay. Losing count, four nights, I think, have now passed. Mother and father must be ill from worry; we've never been far this far out before. Amidst play of seek and hide, Frank went in search for the perfect spot -- a fairly good one as it took two hours to find him-- but night arose, and father's compass had been left upon the porch's rail. A few days later, we managed to find a small amount of water, but it won't last with three of us; and I can already see the exhausted expressions carved upon my brothers' faces. Though Isaac continues to search, I believe even he shall soon relinquish the hope that rescuers will arrive. It's been a week. At what point will the police discontinue our search? When a month has passed? With no food and the last drops having evaporated onto our parched tongues before the sun was set, how could we survive that long? But the question wandering deep within my mind is, “Does anyone even believe we are alive?” Perhaps it is not worry our parents are now suffering, but grief. Though I cannot tell the boys of my suspicions, nor can let them see my fatigue

38

Whispers: black holes concealed within night sky.

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC

Destructive Lies

Whispers: black holes concealed within night sky.

1

why, God? can't you see the tears flowing like the Jordan from these eyes that You created? why? Adonai, why has this shame been cast upon me? in this village You placed me in, there are a hundred laughing children in the arms of every other woman. am i alone put aside? Lord, you know how much i love Your ways, kept and followed every command since i was a girl, let me love a child for a little while, let me suckle a son to my breast and i will give him back to You. Rapha, let this prayer fall like pure soundless snow from my lips look down upon Your servant, look down and remember her.

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC

Hannah's Tears

why, God? can't you see the tears flowing like the Jordan from these eyes that You created? why? Adonai, why has this shame been cast upon me? in this village You placed me in, there are a hundred laughing children in the arms of every other woman. am i alone put aside? Lord, you know how much i love Your ways, kept and followed every command since i was a girl, let me love a child for a little while, let me suckle a son to my breast and i will give him back to You. Rapha, let this prayer fall like pure soundless snow from my lips look down upon Your servant, look down and remember her.

38

impressions left upon ground digging deep into the earth walk on the narrow path journey alone, deep in the woods warm air fills my lungs deep breath in and out dandelion and snakeroot tickle my nose and the ever present scent of pine is underneath on then first step over fallen log which has just begun to rot rest sip fresh water and have a protein bar up ahead lie two gardens-- carefully planted one yields potatoes, one nectar a place for butterflies to dance walk by the stream then head past pavilion finally go towards the car dream and wait for another Saturday

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC

At the Preserve

impressions left upon ground digging deep into the earth walk on the narrow path journey alone, deep in the woods warm air fills my lungs deep breath in and out dandelion and snakeroot tickle my nose and the ever present scent of pine is underneath on then first step over fallen log which has just begun to rot rest sip fresh water and have a protein bar up ahead lie two gardens-- carefully planted one yields potatoes, one nectar a place for butterflies to dance walk by the stream then head past pavilion finally go towards the car dream and wait for another Saturday

25

hope joyful happiness radiates through a beautiful smile as youngest child is told the great news by her mother tears begin to fill in her eyes she hugs her teddy bear and whispers can you believe it? the cancer is gone

0

Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC

Whispered Hope

hope joyful happiness radiates through a beautiful smile as youngest child is told the great news by her mother tears begin to fill in her eyes she hugs her teddy bear and whispers can you believe it? the cancer is gone

10