Epic Poem Challenge

There is a challenge currently running on Ficlets that I was urged to try. You have to write an "epic" poem. I haven't written regimented, verse-style poetry in a long time, sticking to my preferred format, free verse. I tried writing a poem using meter and rhyme scheme and all that junk and it was, well, junk. So I threw that one away and am starting over. The rhyme scheme is nonexistent, but I'll try my darnedest to make it epic. When I'm done playing with it, I'll post it on Ficlets (which is back up and running again, yay!).

~
Áhasêstse'ó Falls
If you should visit Áhasêstse'ó Falls,
When the night sky is a broken diamond,
When the wind cries through the trees,
Chances are you might hear something unexpected:
A voice hidden within wind, words spoken through water.
One heart lost in battle, another drowned deep
Both separated in life, irrevocably joined in death.

Wait and listen patiently,
For this tale requires a ready heart.
It's a story told in many languages, many cultures,
But made no less powerful by its recitation.
It concerns two lovers,
Swift Wind and Whispering Willow,
Two restless souls still searching for the other.

Swift Wind was the fastest, the cleverest,
The best loved by far.
His father was the chief and life was good.
He was free to roam prairie and plain,
But while running brought him happiness,
It never satisfied his deep-rooted hunger;
It was a heart-heavy hunger.

Whispering Willow was the sweetest, the softest,
The best loved by far.
Her father was the chief and life was good.
She was free to weave her tapestries,
Her stories etched in slippery silk and rough wool,
But they never satisfied her deep-rooted hunger;
It was a heart-heavy hunger.

Both their fathers were lifelong foes
Fighting bitterly over land.
They resolved to meet on the battleground for one final battle
To put an end to this most contentious debate.
Swift Wind led his tribe into battle
With a mighty war cry that shook the boughs
And pierced Whispering Willow's heart.

Edit: The poem was finished and posted on Ficlets. You can read it starting here. The challenge-poster, g2, honored me with a win in this challenge. Joy! :)

Nocturnal Sleeping Habits Begone!

I've got myself back on a more regular sleeping pattern. For a while there, I was in danger of becoming completely nocturnal - yesterday I went to sleep at nine AM (!), waking up past three o'clock in the afternoon. In two weeks I'll be back on my waking-up-at-five-AM schedule, so I knew I needed to fix my out-of-whack circadian rhythm. So I took some Advil PM last night, was asleep at around midnight, waking up today at eight. That's awesome. I didn't even feel that tired. So I'm liking Advil better than Tylenol for their sleep meds. I find that Tylenol doesn't kick in right away - Advil works much faster - plus Tylenol leaves me feeling very groggy in the morning, whereas Advil doesn't.

Tomorrow I'll set my alarm clock for seven AM, and next week I'll set it to six, and so on, until I'm closer to that dreaded five AM. Ugh. Why does my school have to start classes at 7:30?! I'd rather work 8:00 - 3:00, and stay a half hour extra if it means a half hour extra of sleep!

But I do admit it's nice to wake up this early, having had a full night of sleep. I want to kick myself for waking up late all summer. I know I've wasted my time this way. I haven't even worked on my thesis. But it's not too late, damnit. I might even work on it today.

I've got some other things to do, too. Chiefly groceries - I've run out of food and have been mooching off my family. Plus I need to do something about my feet - I haven't had a pedicure in a month and it's starting to show.

I just posted two poems on Ficlets that I don't think I'd posted before: "Nightmare" and "Meaning & Memory." Somehow, I was able to publish both without getting that horrible "Ouch!" message, but it just started acting up again and I wasn't able to browse stories on the site. I am dreading the day I try to log on and find that Ficlets is down for good. To that end, I've begun backing up my stuff. So if you find a bunch of short stories and poems on my blog, don't freak out. It will have the tag "ficlets" so that you know it's fiction and won't think I'm actually doing the fantastical and crazy things that go on in my stories. ;)

The Box

Vashti lay in a box. She was almost completely immobile. Almost. She could wriggle her toes and roll her head from side to side, and she could even swing her arms. But she couldn’t sit up. She couldn’t roll over. Vashti had the suddenly violent urge to pee.

Then the curtains opened, and he came out. Fitzgerald was flourishing a large saw dramatically, the red cape fluttering over his spare frame. Vashti noticed that the saw was menacingly sharp. She felt the beginning of nerves, like a pinprick at the base of her neck.

Fitzgerald’s voice echoed against the brick walls of the small theater: “And now for my best trick. I shall cut this woman in half.” He approached her, his green eyes glittering. “Don’t worry, love, this won’t hurt a bit.” He smiled at her reassuringly. It was a toothless smile.

He began slicing through the box, the saw making a grating sound that hurt her ears. But then the real hurt began. The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was a woman’s bloodcurdling scream. Her own.

Six-Word Memoirs: The Excuses

How to apologize to your husband for burning dinner
The oven broke. Oops. Here’s dinner.

How to embarrass your sister in front of her boyfriend
This isn’t my wig! It’s yours!

How to freak out your friends (and enemies)
I really have to pee. Hug?

What to say when you walk in on your roommate (ahem)
Door was open. Didn’t see anything!

How to get that NASCAR fanatic to notice you
I love the smell of gasoline.

What to write on the condolence card to your neighbor
My dog ate your cat. Sorry.

Felicia

Felicia can only remember her past in fragments, brilliant shards of memory that splinter off in her mind and form patterns that are beautiful, despite the fact that they do not touch. She is ninety, gray-haired and stooped, but her eyes are still the eyes with which she entered this world: bright and blue as the just-washed sky at dawn. It is as if her essence, her Felicia-ness, exists solely within those blue spheres. No one who looks into her eyes, young or old, can resist the chemistry of that gaze.

She speaks to those who would hear her stories. Some people dismiss her as an old babbling fool, but those who take the time to listen leave her presence with the gift of her insight.

“Love is so small it can fit through the eye of a needle,” she says with a smile, as she fingers the rose-petal beads of her rosary.

I am one of the nurses who attend her at night. Most of the time, I just sit and watch her sleep, fascinated even by the slow rise and fall of her ribcage, the play of dreams across her face.

~

In time I came to see I was wrong to call Felicia peaceful. We’d been staring into the still surface of a lake when I impulsively compared it to her. She’d swung around to face me, a mysterious smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

“Really?” she’d said, and I remember being amazed that such a small word could contain so much inside of it. I realize now that she’d seen my really very innocent comment as a challenge. But then her next response took my breath away.

She jumped into the lake. I remember how hard she laughed as she surfaced, long hair plastered against her head, shirt ballooning around her. She looked waterlogged and messy. I’d never seen her look more beautiful.

Now she sits in the small room where she lives in the ALF , her memories stolen by something they call Alzheimer’s. Her blue eyes are now cloudy, no longer the clear, deep waters I knew. After nearly half a century together I realize how I was wrong to call her peaceful. Unpredictable would’ve been a better word. Beautiful the best.

Nightmare [poem]

A familiar face hovers at the horizon of consciousness --
It is 4 am and the house sleeps.
I awakened by a memory that has come trespassing into my dream
My pulse an angry fish, desperate to get out of its net of veins.

These are the eyes that envision a past coldly,
Without remorse.
This is the mind that unfurls itself wildly,
Conjuring up a host of ghosts.

What is this face, this abstract jigsaw
With eyes where the mouth should be?
What is its name? What color is its voice?
I begin to recall.

This is the memory I had confidently drowned
Five fathoms deep, come suddenly to surface;
It drives cruel fangs into my heart
And I learn what pain is again.

5 AM [poem]

Watching you like this, I can think of
a thousand different things I want to say to you,
like, the moon slid off the face of the sky
just like a tear.

But my mouth disobeys, stays shut as a tomb.

Were you about to say something? you ask and I'm left
defenseless, the doors behind doors slamming shut,
bolts locked into place.

Meaning comes later, after the words that will be spoken
have been spoken.
Remembering will come, too, with its sharp little teeth
that dig and dig.

Don't try so hard, the mind whispers, before the body flings
itself into action.

Nothing, I say, and smile.