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like bad poetry, only less so...

The poetry and prose of Laurel Chaisson

1/2/06 07:53 pm - 7thfeather - What Does it Matter?

What Does it Matter?
By Laurel Chaisson

Each year we remember those that have died
in wars that achieve nothing, except to divide.
Their families and friends, were left behind to mourn
the loved-ones that, from their lives, were brutally torn.
What does it matter, who won in the end?
Both sides of the battle have hearts that won’t mend.


(c) 2005

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1/2/06 07:52 pm - 7thfeather

by Laurel Chaisson

Sunlit dawn does shatter the night
And with it comes a quickened pulse and painful goodbye,
And day-loving songbirds dance in the clear, blue sky
Alas, it is time for me to take flight.

For never was an angel such as yourself made to be adored.
Although love is what I carry within in this splintered heart,
If I could even begin to speak, I would not know where to start.
For these reasons, I have left you ignored.


(c) 2005

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1/2/06 07:50 pm - 7thfeather - Halfway

by Laurel Chaison

I’m on the outside, looking in:
A soul trapped in a cage of skin.
My wings are clipped, I cannot fly...
I’m watching the world with one closed eye.


(c) 2005


1/2/06 07:48 pm - 7thfeather - (A plea to the) Child of the Frost

(A plea to the) Child of the Frost
by Laurel Chaisson

Listen, oh listen,
Oh, Child of the Frost
for I have a tale for you.
You will embark on a perillous quest,
the end of which may never come.

and be still young one,
for the light dims in Winter!
I will always be near
though the darkness consumes the light.

Hold close your dreams
and never forget
what you see may not always be.
Don't stray the path;
you'll lose your way.
A choice can be made but once.
(c) 2005
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1/2/06 07:45 pm - 7thfeather - Parenthesis

by Laurel Chaisson

think about
you (us)
too much.


(c) 2005

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1/2/06 07:20 pm - 7thfeather - Creative Characters 1

             Francine G. Franarrd was a short, thin girl of twelve and a quarter. If she had had any friends she would have requested that they call her Fran but they wouldn’t have heard her anyway, her voice being so dull that people rarely realized she was even speaking until halfway into her sentence. It normally didn’t matter though because Fran rarely had anything to say in the first place. There were days when Fran would sit in class without being noticed until lunch when the students were allowed row by row to leave and get their bags. Mrs. Brady would then flush a deeper shade of red than usual (which was not a unpredicted sight because she was always embarrassed about something) and apologise hastily for her oversight whilst nervously picking at an overly-chewed thumbnail. Later in mathematics she would fail to remember Francine once again and leave her out of the multiplication quizzes routinely given.
             Fran didn’t mind. She was okay at math and didn’t need the practice anyway. In fact, Fran was okay at everything she ever did. Francine was never quite completely terrible at anything and yet, never exceedingly very capable. In the same sense, she had a kind of confusing look to her - not gorgeous, not hideous and still fairly unappealing. Framing the dreary-looking facial expression she always possessed were two straight, brown lines of un-tampered-with hair held back with a conventional red ribbon tied up in a bow. Her mother had insisted she wear it despite the fact that Fran didn’t like the colour red (then again, Fran’s mother didn’t know that.) If anyone bothered to look they’d always see the same outfit; a regular, boring white t-shirt and a grey lacklustre pleated skirt that hung somewhere around where her knobby knees were located. Her plain knee-high stockings had even become a monotonous sight after a few weeks. Also, she always wore black buckled shoes, even in January.
             No one, of course, had ever had the courage to ask Fran why she didn‘t care if they filled up with snow and melted during first period. People mainly ignored Francine Franarrd - mostly because they found her vaguely unnerving but didn’t have a clear idea of why. It was as if she was too normal and that made her weird enough to avoid at all cost when walking the halls. She seemed to be beyond all schoolyard activity because no one was sure where Francine went at recess.
             Fran was in no way an ordinary sixth grader… she was extraordinary - and not in an exciting way. She came from a planet situated in close proximity to the Alpha Centauri system, our Sun’s nearest neighbours, in order to observe and relay information back to her home world to see if Earth would be a suitable future vacation spot for their high-paying customers. It wasn’t .
             Fran had recently requested to return to her home planet. Her complaint? Earth is boring.
(c) 2005

1/2/06 07:32 pm - 7thfeather - Negative Numbers

 Negative Numbers
by Laurel Chaisson

I cannot avoid looking into the mirror
and counting the bones I can't see yet
but I won't be happy
until I can count to zero
and stop before I get there.


(c) 2005

1/2/06 07:31 pm - 7thfeather - Lean

by Laurel Chaisson

your hands are almost too soft
to be the cracked porcelain they are.
linger a while where my spine forms an arc;
where my shoulder blades slump
so that the bones will show.
my hands are a salty mask
of barbed wire
but they can't keep you out.

(c) 2005
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1/2/06 07:30 pm - 7thfeather - Like Bad Poetry

 Like Bad Poetry
by Laurel Chaisson

unheard of, it's taboo,
unreal, unsure, undeniably true
but, like bad poetry,
a string of words strung like lights on holiday festivities,
uncertain sentences sewn together.
life-like, breathing, with beating heart
you i it,
ripped, torn and bleeding
so softly lilting, waver and fall
into the depths of un-ness.


(c) 2005

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1/2/06 07:29 pm - 7thfeather - Moments before a Kiss

 Moments before a Kiss
by Laurel Chaisson

Silence hangs like the lights on the tree;
an ornamental quiet flickering between us
we're stretched as close as we can get.
our eyes, the opposite poles on a magnet
trying to swivel and lock into place -
a natural reaction
to bated breath,
to sweaty palms,
to fluttering heartbeats and hopeful thoughts.
We synchronize,
secretly hoping our hopes haven't been written
in the oh-so-carefully constructed guise
that neither of us has really perfected...
I know my cheeks are red from blushing;
so are yours.


(c) 2005

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