The Beauty of Age

I look at you sitting there

Beauty in the grayness of your hair

Deep roads of wisdom line your face

And carved, etched around your lips

Where words fall with grace.

In wonderment I sit

And watch your hands as they flit

In them I see meaning, accomplishment, peace

Resting now, no shifting

And the sweetness of release.

And hope in this cruel, grasping world

All that I have laid down

Will lead me to one day bask

In the splendor of age

And wear time like a crown.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

© January 2015

Dispel All the Dark

This isn't polished yet but it is still sort of shiny

Little child dream

Dispel all the dark

The dark that tries to bite you

And hide you in its cloak.

Make bright the world around you

Love all who you see

Wish and wish and wish

And climb every tree.

Dance in the puddles

Run in the rain

Laugh when you are joyful

And cry when you are in pain.

Emotions have value

Just as logic does

But let neither overtake you

Only let love.

And love until you burst

Because sometimes that how it feels

And sometimes you bruise your heart

When you’ve fallen head over heels

But laugh and laugh harder

Laugh at all the world

Because their ideals aren’t so important

As living life unfurled.

And living life with purpose

If that purpose only be

To live with love unfettered

And to be what you must be.

To know that God is bigger

Then you will ever understand

And you are living life secure

But not jailed by his hand.

People will always wonder at you smiling

Or for most anything at all

Except for being like them

And that dream is sort of small.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

Culture, Part One

Culture, Part One

Plastic silhouette peel-off

On your mud flap

Bumper

Crumble it up and discard

When it isn’t shiny anymore.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews, C. 2010

Wish

So just come dance with me
Dance all night long
In a crazy rhythm
And to our own song

Let the world have theirs
And I will have mine
And you are it
And we dance in time.

And we dance harder
And we dance slow
And we laugh at life
And we don't know.

All we know is each other
And our bright bright eyes
And the fact that you are mine
And that we have no disguise.

That the world can hide
And go on being sad
But we don't miss it
They've been had.

We can just be each other's
In our castle made of dreams
When we enter this house
All is as it seems.

Home is where we are
Life is who we are
Happy is what we are.
When we are... together.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews
December 18, 2012 ©

Red Balloon

Most of the time I want to wait until I have perfected my poetry or the title to post it. But often that means that it will never get done. Therefore, I am posting this poem as is. Also, a disclaimer I often feel I have to put is that when a person writes a poem or story or even paints a piece it does not mean that it reflects the place they are in life at this point. It could even be that there is only a shadow of this feeling anywhere in their history. So, enjoy the poem for what it is and not what you think it says about the author. Thank you.

Deflated balloon am I
I am
When life is asunder
And all I can think about is
Why me
And who am I really?
What have I done and what will I ever do?
And my arms hang at my side
And droop as the air
Slowly leaks out of
Its tiny hole.
And there I am red
And on the ground
Broken
And no one to hold me.
And lift me high to the sky.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews ©

Two AM Poetry 11/20/12

November 21, 2012

Thoughts awhirl in my head in my bed

Weigh down on me  like lead. 

And if I close my eyes perhaps I can shed

All the weight, all the thoughts like I’m dead. Like I’m dead. 

Sleep! Sleep! Lay down my head

In the depths of the deep deep pillow and shed and shed.

 My thoughts like a snake skin but they are fed. 

By the darkness and weariness and worries  “I need peace now.” I said. 

But the dark does not listen and I've read. I have read.

My thoughts on the pillow they have bled they have bled.

Sopping though it is, red, it is red.

I lay down weary, all the heaviness that is my head.

I lay it in the pillow, my thoughts and heart all in a shred.

-Emily Chumchal  Andrews

Poetry: In a Crowd

This was written today

In a Crowd

Murmur of voices
The indistinct babble
Of a brook.
And here I am
A part of it
Floating in the water
My hair thrashes and
Moves with with the current.
The lovely tree
Dips its branches
To the edge
We shake hands softly
And the leaves pull back
And tremble.
I cannot help
But ponder
After we have brushed fingers
The connection of my life
With all others
and the life we all breathe
Together.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

Broken Record

A broken record
You play me
And I say the same thing.
And I say the same thing.
And I say the same thing.
And I just want to be fixed
I want to be smooth
I want to make you dance
I want to make you dance
I want to make you dance.
Don't ignore me
So many distractions
Can't you fix me
Fix me
Fix me?
I want you to understand
The song I sing
But I am garbled
I repeat myself
I just want you to hear
I just want you to hear
I just want you-
Emily Chumchal Andrews

Pause

I have sat at this desk a few time in the past week and not been able to write anything. I decided to just begin writing and see what came and that I must post whether it is as perfect as I would like to be or not. It is not. So, I will probably come back and refine this. Maybe not. But here is this week's post.

Pause


We are afraid to pause
To lose our momentum
Our emotion
Our meaning
If we pause
We may discover-
And that is frightening.
We may betray ourselves
And that is appalling.
We might observe
And we would rather remain
Blind.
Pausing is vulnerable
It allows others to speak
To observe
To step onto the stage
And change a reaction
A thought
You.
-Emily Chumchal Andrews

I Like

I like high fives. I want to give and receive some.

I like jumping around like a fool.

I like dancing anywhere...like a fool. I want to go dancing.

I like singing. It calms me when I am scared. It gives me a thrill when I am happy. I want to karaoke.

I like learning new things.

I like smashing things, but there are not many things to smash. At least that will not cost me a bit.

I like acting or performing in general, it gives me a feeling of being somewhere else and I can be anyone and I forget everything. I love it. It has been a long time since I have done it.

Look At The Stars

My life runs into different shades of
The same color
No distinction
I look at the stars
And their glory
And my own muted colors
Against them
And I sigh
To be up there
Gazed at
Admired
Studied
Each human
Desires public adoration
Importance.
Chests heave deep sighs
Reverberating throughout the world
In response to life.
But where would the stars be
If no one to admire them?

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

The Cabbage Worm

This poem is a story. In my mind I can see the events that lead up to this moment, but I don't want to tell them because I want whoever reads this to have their own story. It is about deception and the way others react and feel when they realize they have been deceived (especially as a mass).


The Cabbage Worm

It was the seventh day
That is, the seventh of May
And he would hang
On the gallows.
He had beguiled us
Reviled us
And we felt distaste sting
In our mouth.
Though his words
Had been smoke
We had believed
This fable-full man.
Our vanity
Our vanity
No elixir
For that disease.
The solution?
Let his au jus
Run down the
Wooden platform
And pay for
His sulfur sins.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

Daddy

I think my Creative Writing professor wanted to read this poem and find something reminiscent of Sylvia Plath's "Daddy" poem. This was the first poem I turned in (the one below is the edited and re-written version) but she wrote that the poem was like a Hallmark Card. You may think means that she liked it. In fact, that is an insult in the creative writing world. I think it also led to her having a preconceived idea about me the whole semester. She was surprised when I turned out some things and answered certain questions. Her tone said "Emily? That must have been pure luck!" I had never actually had a professor think this way of me. Usually in every class from Brit Lit to English 2, History, Sociology, Government, even Algebra I had my work held up as an example. It could be embarrassing, but if was also affirming. So, I worked hard in Creative Writing (and all the other classes too, hard work got the "A's") and I think it paid off in my writing. It still wasn't what she wanted, which I think was what fell within what was popular in Creative Writing at the time(there should not be trends in Creative writing!) But she did like a couple of lines (which happened to be some of my favorite)and I have kept those in this version of the poem.

DADDY

Your green eyes laugh
For your number one girl
And she wants to be like you,
Spitting sunflower seeds
Like a machine gun
In her best daddy fashion.

I put my soft child hand
Into your rough and hard-worked ones
And trust that life is certain.
I'll wrestle your muscled arm down
White where the sun has not browned
You. And I'll keep you there forever.

We played the "get-away-game"*
You holding me tight,
I would loosen your grip
Trying to see who was strongest
You always won, but our delighted fun
Was that I could never really get away.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

*The Get-Away-Game is an actual game that my dad and brother and I made up. The object was to "get away" from my dad. We had to be able to unloose his hands and legs and run away. He would hold us by his legs, we would wriggle out, think we were home free and he would grab us by the ankles. Or unhinge his hands and then get caught between his legs and so on.

Confidence

I find that at times I wish I had the confidence in life, love, and myself that I had at ten years old:

Knocking the wood down
With my ball
Gathering up spit
Standing there tall.
The first woman pitcher
That was me
Nolan Ryan style
Just wait and see.
Practicing and sweating
In the sun
Determined and smiling
And having fun.
I was so sure of myself
And I was ten
And what I'd give
To be so certain again.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

The Alphabet Exercise

The challenge I gave myself was to craft a poem with the alphabet. First line starts with A.

Above
Below
Couldn't
Didn't
Echo.
Far
Gone
Hollow
In
July
Kite
Lost
Mourning
Nigh.
Oh
Please
Quiet
Restless
Souls
Troubled
Unrested
Vile
Woes.
X
Yearning
Zealous foes.

-Emily Chumchal-Andrews

Hooked

Often when a poem is written the reader assumes that it is an event in the author's life or one they know of. In reality, that is not generally true. The author has researched (perhaps) but has mostly used their imagination. The poem I wrote below tells a story, but it isn't mine and in my conscious mind I cannot say why I would have even written it. I like the rhythm, I don't know. Read it and think what you think. I think that I like the fact that no one would think of me writing this poem.

Insidiously
I moved
My baluster stem
Body
Swaying
In a mesmeric
Rhythm.
Like a Trapdoor Spider
Near my burrow
I stayed-
and drew the moth in.
I would play him
Like an xylophone
His
Thump, thump heartbeat
Loud.
At my leisure
I looked
He was
Hooked.

Authentic trash
Like the rest
Rubble
Like my first
Like my last
No trouble.

Willingly
He stayed
Knowing no better
My body in his eyes
Hypnotized.
I danced
Like a mantis
About to prey.
Let him
Look his fill.
I rub my mocking legs
Together-
Time to kill.
His thump
Thump
Hearbeat
Is still.
He looked.
Poor boy-
He's hooked.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

Life Dance

Ms. Shirley
Taught me the
Jitterbug
And our jollification
Was a heel-tap
Tic-snappity-snap
Excellence.

To the left
The right
Swift step-
Beat
I move my hips
Life's sweet.
Quit mugging light
And go ahead
Mug heavy
I stay in the groove-
I'm steady.
Move, baby girl,
Swing out and send
Keep light on your plates
And tap the ten.

Ms. Shirley jived and wrangled
And though I was
Tangled and heinous
In my attempts
We collapsed
In laughter and exclamation

And wow...
I'm a dancer now.

-Emily Chumchal Andrews

Versemaker

I am going to explain this poem. It is a favorite exercise of mine to get the writing juice shaken and flowing. You take about fifteen words or so and use as many as you can or want and create a poem. I generally love what comes out. Just because it is so different than starting from scratch and you often write something you never would have imagine. Here goes:


You are the trustee of my reality
And the vinegar on my jujube
Melting my sweetness into
A stagnant pool.

I am orange
I am a cloudburst
I am the queen of my realm

But you are like a hyphen
Dividing me while connected
A shoehorn squeezing a large foot
Into a small boot.

I am the foot
I am the word
And the jujube.

This is reality.