Sorry Charlie

Charlie loved Anna from far away.
He saw her once on the tube
and vowed to tour where she lived
worked laughed cried ate walked loved
he vowed to give her new reason to love
(Charlie thinks he's the hero,
but he needs more love than he has to give.)

Anna wears business suits.
Houndstooth, when she can get away with it.
She never wears green.
Anna already loved,
lied, and lost.
She vowed to never return love blindly.
If her love was a response to devotion,
he would be hurt.
He would love her too much.

No shows sold out
and most of the seats were radio prizes
but poor Englishmen, Charlie figures,
are like poor American men
but speak in accent.
"Would you like to 'ave tea wif me, Ahna?
Oh, blahst. Do you 'ave any cahsh?"
Yes. She would love his empty, British pockets.

Anna loves her job.
She presents cold fronts and storm threats
on a daily basis
and says things like "Back to you, Don."
They love her there,
even though her big, red curls cover Iowa sometimes.
She eats in the station lounge
where a stranger finds her.
A stranger named Charlie.

"Ello, Ahna."
"Um. Hello."
"Oi'm Chahlie. Oi, uh, get the Weathuh Channel
in my apahtment back home. Oi saw you."
"Yes, well. That's where most people do."
"Oi've come to see you. Heah, in real loife.
Oi fink oi luf you."
"--Do you now. I'm flattered. And, quite frankly,
a bit amazed. But I'm sorry, Charlie. I can't love you back."

"Yes, yes, but oi 'oped you could...try."
"What do you drink, Charlie? Tea?"
"Shuh. Blahck."
"Let's get some. My treat. For your trouble.

I want you to know, I can only love you first.
I can't love you because you love me."
"Thaht's okay, Ahna. Oi wouldn't wahnt you to.

Ahna?"
"Yeah."
"Oi like yoh suit."
"Thanks.
I like your accent."

"I Appreciate You Being My Guardian Angel"

http://stevooo.blogspot.com/2008/11/shake-dust_03.html

^copy and paste the link/read the post/view luxury and faith, if possible, differently.



See you soon, Stephen Baker

The Lonely Apple

Radio City's famous pine twinkles.
Rockefeller's ice rink encircles lively figure eights.
Street vendors feature swaths of cashmere --
scarves: five for twenty.
Central Park carriages overshadow honking yellow taxis.
The world's largest toy store presents
its ten foot Lego Nutcracker
as an unprecedented seven floor Department Store
wraps mannequins in mink.
Philharmonic concerts will "be home for Christmas."
Far away fathers concur, phoning
"You can count on me."
Grand Central terminals fuel the city
with hundreds of "I'll be home for Christmas" claimants.
Sadly but not so sparingly,
certain cars will disappoint,
branding young and rosy mittened minds
with the seasonal tune's often overlooked conclusion:
"If
only
in

my


dreams."

Sunday Night Postsecret: Self-Relevant Edition

Outburst

rolling tears liberate.
as each bass riff swells through
the greatest song you know
from the worst time you’d forgotten,
a cold and fragile outburst is
evidence of what a closed door hides.

rushing fears cripple.
what doesn’t kill you makes you
not stronger, but a lost and fallen
version of strength. hope for this.
for only the hope of strength’s return pushes
past blind eyes and forces clarity.

uneasy heart rates rise.
heads throb with pumping blood
but no sense is made.
hands shake and search for a handle,
an anchor. what you walked away from
still holds on.

expectations fall,
but mediocrity never knew you.
passion is passion and yours is full.
no one looks down when your chin is up.
tears and fears helped build you,
but you’re not built of them.

Whispers

[I wrote this sonnet two years ago for my Lit class. The only structured poem I've written, save haikus. I'm working on a sestina now, which is proving harder than this baby was... I'll post that one, too, if I like it.]

The wind it whispers through the branches few,
She speaks of what the world has come to be.
I listen then and tell the wind of you,
She knows now how your love has set me free.
The river rushes swiftly past the pines,
He says he has not seen me in a while.
Confessing that indeed this fault is mine,
I boast to him the wonders of your smile.
The mountains strong stand tall above the rest,
Their noble faces silent never bend.
Of all the spirits they have listened best,
But you alone I'll treasure til the end.
My truest love, you spoke to me at dawn,
Alas, it was a dream -- for you have gone.

Guess What?

So I realized this is the kind of thing you might like to hear about. Since dropping Spanish, I have taken up a position on the Literary Magazine staff. We publish our high school literary journal at the end of each year, and I'm hoping the experience will reflect well on a career based in journalism and fresh ideas. Jobs and their descriptions were assigned on Thursday, and I was decided as one of two Deputy Editors-in-Chief. ...hyphenated? Job title spelling is probably something I should know. Anyway. I'm very excited. Along with a spot on the Poetry editing team as a General Editor, this spot directly beneath those who finalize the magazine will prove rewarding.

**Also: current and future Lit Mag assignments will probably find their way up here. I'm working on a few things right now, so I'll post them soon to find out what you think. Isn't this cool? I write post material for a set-aside hour each day and get class credit for it!