Summer of Love: in memory of…..well, love

Amatuer poems and prose written by Me at various times in my youth, for the different loves, and almost loves in my life.

Freshman year, 1993—-Robert

Feather

Just like a feather

from a magnificent bird

was the way you swept through my fingers.

Maybe it was love?

That I don’t know

but something was there

and now it’s gone.

March 1995—Ryan , my first love

Not Long Enough

Words can’t explain it

but do you feel the same?

don’t talk, don’t say a word

I know

I already know

hold me, kiss me, touch me, love me

I gave you my innocence

now take it with care

don’t break it, its fragile

how precious

it’s full of love, wanting to give more

hold me, kiss me, touch me, love me

forever is not long enough.

July 15, 1998

In This Search

In this search for the one with his eyes

the eyes that penetrate through me

the eyes that read me

the eyes I get lost in

the eyes I don’t fear looking into mine

for they’re the eyes that love me

In this search for the one with his hands

the hands that cup my chin

the hands that run through my hair

the hands that with the slightest touch on my skin

fill me with contentment

the hands I don’t fear holding me

for they’re the hands that protect me

In this search for the one with his voice

the voice that alter with emotion

the voice he only lets me hear when we’re alone

the voice that can loves to sing regardless of skill

the voice I don’t fear hearing

for its the voice that makes me smile

the voice I’d know anywhere

In this search for the one with his mind

the mind that ponders

the mind that doesn’t give up

the mind that craves knowledge

the mind I don’t fear helping

for its the mind that helps mine

In this search for the one with his heart

the heart that bleeds

the heart that cries

the heart that loves Jesus

the heart I don’t fear holding

for its that heart that also holds me

In this search for the one with his soul

the soul that is alive

the soul that glows with contentment

the soul that loves my God

the soul I don’t fear knowing

for its the soul that dances with mine

Where do I find who I am searching for?

He can’t be the one I long for

Where do I find the one with all his traits but one?

Where do I find the one who will never stop loving me?

March 25, 1999—Cameron

My Love

The eyes of my love

are warm baths

soothing and comforting.

The lips of my love

are royal pillows

made only for me, the queen.

the hands of my love

are leather

strong and worn

yet they turn to velvet

with the slightest touch on my skin.

The heart of my love

is a furnace

full of warmth and light.

Time is ticking….where are you my love?

 Spring 2001—-Michael and friends

Whispers

Memories travel like a whisper int the dark

I can still hear the whispers from years ago

In dreams, I see bright light through my eyelids.

Mikey says the scent of Heavenly gives him butterflies

His touch sends tickling fingers down my spine

His lips taste salty sweet

His whispers urge me to stand on top of Big Bear Mountain and sing

Purple sounds like drum and bass

Spring break 1998—Lake Havasu, Arizona—Barbie Matzke falls down in the dirt laughing

hysterically–she thought we were floating on a raft, but we were napping in our tent

we weren’t napping, we were daydreaming.

Santa Ana winds wrap warm blankets between still, cold air

Kaden is a perfect name for a child

My name is Theresa because that’s what everyone calls me

We howled Pink Floyd’s “Two Lost Souls Swimming in a Fish Bowl” late into the night

The small lips of peace and contentment kissed our eyelids as we fell asleep.

His sheets are as white as night.

I’m flying above him now, can he see my wings?

Treese is too passionate for the Average Taurus

but this Taurus’s whispers drive her passions.

Cold blankets make December nights numb.

I’ll have to whisper through the pounding rain for him to hear me.

Quiero que besarte otravez

daffodils in my garden flirt with the sunlight

whispers float through the clouds, through my window, through my mind.

 

Falling in Love—date written, unknown

I love the butterflies, the dizziness, the warm feeling that spreads over my body when I think of him or talk to him. I love the innocent and naïve infatuation with everything and anything he says or does. I love the random moments when he crosses my mind. I love the fantasies and dreams of laughter, friendship, and romance.

But falling head over heals is such a paradoxical transition isn’t it?

Bitter

s

w

e

e

t

The bitter comes with the uncertainty. The fear of losing what I have yet to call mine. The moments when he doesn’t say something utterly romantic and I fear—oh no, he is over it!! The fear—the fear of loss, the fear of gain, the fear of life changing. The continuous need for reassurance when I hate being that way. But doesn’t falling for someone change us momentarily into these babbling, needy, idiots?
 
I hate the inability to just sleep, the fear of being played—not believing that this person who seems so perfect at this moment could ever want to leave the attention of all those other women for just me.
The knowledge that this person will by no means be perfect, and the excitement and fear that I could possibly be intimate enough with him to get to know those flaws and grow to love them. 

The things I love and hate about falling in love: the paradoxical hope and fear that somehow through all of this, everything will change.

Yes, falling head over heels is a combination of both
                                                           y
                                                    s

                                            a

t

s

c

E

and

P

a

i

n

both at the same time, mixing around in my brain and in my stomach. I want the feelings to go away, but at the same time, never want them to leave.

Am I the only one? No….I know this is part of it. This is part of what I have gone through so many times in my life—each time, hoping this one is for real. Each time, disappointed in someway. Each time, swearing to never go through it again. Each time, surprising myself because I still feel like I did the first time I fell for someone—13 years old all over again. So uncertain about where my life is going. So uncertain about who I am or what I really want. So child-like and vulnerable. So stupidly giddy and willing to sacrifice all in the name of some fantasy only Cinderella and The Little Mermaid truly experienced.

I’ve been told to put on my goggles and dive in. Otherwise, how else will I find that prize winning fish?

And so I do—but I don’t dive in

I do a cannon ball.

 

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Sep 22, the First Day of Autumn

 

 Autumn has come like a thief in the night

 and stolen it all from me.

 Today, I see the first faded brown possiblility fall to the earth

soon to be dry and crunching beneath my feet

as I walk among the leaves wondering—why? how?

It almost seemed like a dream

too sudden and too good and too gone

to be real.

How long will this season last?

Will the death and absence of all in the white

of winter come and go just as quickly,

so I can find the green in spring once again?

Or will the queen pick up the dead leaves of her splendor

and make herself a bed of dust to dwell in the

long, cold winter?

Oh come Spring! I want to dance again!

Meanwhile, the Angels Surround Him (In remembrance of 9-11)

In memory of 9-11, I decided to include a copy of a poem  I wrote in a creative writing class I was taking the fall semester of 2001. The assigment for that week was to pick up a newspaper and look at the pictures and let a picture inspire a poem. The North County Times that week had included an article on the rescuers who were in the process of digging for survivers in the rubble of Ground Zero. The picture they used was one of a firefighter, looking completely defeated, sitting down in the rubble with his head down almost between his knees. I wrote this poem entitled “Meanwhile, the Angels Surround Him.” I hope you like it.

I close my eyes and sit on broken plywood,

black smoke, cracked brick, rising dirt, shattered glass

and blood, some dried, some warm–

once two towers of strength and pride,

now a tomb

of unfinished dreams and unsaid goodbyes.

I’ve sifted through burned pictures

of your children, your husbands, and wives.

I can feel their tears mixing with my own.

I’ve choked on the dust and breathed in the darkness

that surrounds and envelops this black and blurry dream

If only I could dig faster

I’ve been searching for days

And have carried and held your friends, coworkers, neighbors

I’ve watched some live and some die.

But it’s you who make me weep–

only a couple more days before you’re gone too.

I can hear your voices

screaming for your saviors, in my head

My blood-stained hands, calloused and sore

wipe the sweat from my brow

and I pray to God to give us all strength

My Writings

Okay–some of you all know that I’ve been publishing my writing through a website called Helium, but many of you haven’t. Honestly, anyone can publish their stuff through the site so this is in no way showing off on my part. But what I like about the site is that writers can compete for titles. A few of my pieces are not doing so hot. They are in the middle or in the lower half. However,  a couple of my pieces have done really well and so that is exciting too. And as an added bonus, if magazines or other mediums want to include a piece under a certain topic or title, Helium offers them one of their top rating articles for that title and the writer can get paid. How much have I made so far? Oh probably like 3 dollars. No–please, no pictures or autographs right now. I’m a very rich and important woman. 🙂

Well, if you are ever interested in seeing how my stuff is doing, feel free to check my page out at http://www.helium.com/users/378127

I will also add this link to my blog roll.

Those Amazing Teachable Moments

//www.starbeck.com/images/as_131_smile_mask.jpgIf someone had asked me why I wanted to teach high school students or to teach English, they would not hear me speak about my excitement over creating grammar trees or analyzing the conflict in the plot of a story or determining whether or not Hamlet is insane. I wanted and still want to teach high school students through literature and writing because I want to make a difference in their lives.  Literature and writing was the only avenue that allowed me to get in touch with my emotions in high school and college. High school is a terribly confusing time for most teenagers and many of them, I myself was one of them, couldn’t find solace at home. How much I would have loved to hear from someone willing to talk about the struggles of being a teenager and how they got through it. Someone who truly understood what I was going through and willing to admit some of the things they learned. Someone who could be a good example to me.

Of course, I have long stretches of time in my classes where all I do end up teaching them is how to analyze a character and how to determine whether a word is an adjective or an adverb, but every once in a while, I am blessed with an opportunity to teach my teenagers about life. Sometimes it may be through the theme of a story that everyone is into and I can hear their silence…but a different kind. A silence that screams thought and contemplation instead of boredom or apathy. But even better are those moments before, during, or after school, when I can teach them about something that is affecting them right now.

I had that moment today.

We just finished a unit on Poetry. I love poetry and I loved poetry in high school. But one thing I remember from poetry in high school is that I learned more from the poems that connected to my life than the poems that Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson ever wrote about. Browsing through the curriculum that I was to teach this year, I couldn’t help but notice how quickly we would rush through poetry without ever having students learn how to apply it to their own writing or to have them share poems that make them think or feel something. So I made some adjustments. I required each one of my students to either bring in a poem that they wrote or a poem that someone else wrote, but that they liked. Everyday, someone would read their poem and we would talk about it before jumping into the day’s lesson. I even told them that I wanted this poetry unit to be meaningful to them. And as we studied poetry, I often asked them to think about how they could write poetry using some of the figurative language or techniques that the poets of our curriculum used. I saw many amateur poets excitedly practicing their skills on their college-ruled lined paper that they folded and stuffed into pockets or passed on to friends in the halls.

Today one of my students brought in a poem that she wrote. It was a free-verse confessional poem about the masks she wears and her desperation to be liberated from the lies she lies behind. She started to cry while reading it and the entire class was screaming the silence of complete understanding. We all gave her a big group hug and when I heard students whispering to each other about how they felt the sameway  and when I saw tears well up in a few empathetic audience members, I knew I had to set aside my lesson for the moment and use this opportunity to teach them something.

I asked them to raise their hand if they felt the way she did. Every single hand went up. Twenty hands from twenty 14-year-olds of every color and social group and intelligence level. Twenty teenagers who thought that no one understood them, but learned right there that they had more in common then they thought. For half an hour we talked about the masks we wear in high school. About how tough it is when we don’t know who we are. I shared with them how much I had felt the same way when I was a freshman. And then I felt called to take it to a deeper level and bring up how so many teenagers turn to drugs to find comfort in their confusion and how this just fuels the vicious cycle of not being self-actualized. I explained to them that what they are feeling is normal– about the development of their frontal lobe and what areas of our thinking and acting that it influences. Also coincidentally, the very same part of the brain that drugs destroy, slowing its development or preventing it from ever developing at all until they find themselves at the age of 35 and realizing they are at the emotional level of a 14-year-old and wonder if it is too late to ever figure life out. Students asked a lot of questions. Questions about alcohol and marijuana. About where to draw the line.  About what to do about “friends” who are abusing drugs. I had one student ask me what she could do to help herself not feel so lost and confused. She finally realized she was normal, but still wanted hope. I gave them both secular and spiritual advice. I told her and the rest of the class to write, to exercise, to stay active, to do more of the things that help them release emotions and energy. I told them to associate themselves with people who love and respect them no matter who they are, be it family or close, true friends. And I told them, that for me, Jesus has made a difference. I made sure to say “for me” so that I couldn’t be accused of telling them they HAD to develop a personal relationship with their creator even though I wanted to so bad. This is definitely one of the downsides of working in public education and I’m not sure if I will have a job tomorrow. But the atmosphere of the class had gotten so personal at that moment, I think it will stay indoors. If not, I have faith that I will be okay.

It was hard to change the subject to our analytical essays afterward, but we all made the transition. I told them that they could come and talk to me anytime they wanted and that I would listen and not judge them and to do my best to share my wisdom. I told them that our class was a family and I watched their heads nod in agreement. It was a powerful moment.

In the end, it really doesn’t matter if these kids walk away from my class knowing the difference between a simile and a metaphor. But if they walk our of my door knowing that they are not alone and there is light at the end of the dark tunnel of adolescence without masks or drugs or suicide, then to me, I have made a difference. I hope they all sleep a little better tonight. And maybe try writing another poem again soon.

Night

night.

the rain

          drops

                      dance on the roof and window.

Grains of rice spilling off

                       the metalic edge of a steel drum.

The lulling song

                       mixes

with the sound of you and I breathing,

dancing too, under the sheets

to the song of our discovery.

You—this great terrain of mountain.

                        And I–your quiet valley.

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