Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 6)

This was the most interesting poem for me to read. Made me kind of introspective again, actually.

MIRROR POEM: Secrets

When I look into the mirror,
I see another person.
A person I can relate to,
who can share all my secrets.
Looking into her dark eyes,
I can see something there:
A sense of achievement;
a strong self-motivation.
This, I feel,
is a dependable person,
who won't let me down,
unless it is beyond her control.
I can tell she has seen many successes,
yet I see also many failures.
I see how they bother her,
gnawing away at the back of her mind,
like little, pesky rodents.
Things that could have gone better,
had she put in the effort.
Opportunities that could have been opened,
had she only let them be.
But worst of all,
I see the failures that most torture her.
When those she cared most about,
had to endure pain and sorrow.
Those times are the most awful,
to her sensitive conscience.
Even if she could have changed nothing,
still the thought nags at her,
that she should have done something!
These things reveal themselves to me,
as I continue to look into her eyes.
However, I am quite sure,
that she will never burden another,
with the wild, troublesome thoughts,
that fly through her mind at every second.
Never will they know what lies beneath.
The cheerful smile,
the good-natured laugh,
it is all a concealment
of the problems she seeks to resolve.
She does not want others to worry,
or feel sorry for her,
or to know when they have hurt her,
so she simply keeps it a secret,
a caged animal threatening to emerge.
As I watch her,
I wish to tell her,
not to be so protective,
of the people around her,
but to be mindful to herself.
I want to tell her,
to enjoy herself in life,
and all the gifts it brings.
I feel that she should know
she can take a break sometimes.
And I will be there for her,
just as she is there for others.

Yeah. Speaks for itself, really.

Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 5)

I think this poem was based on my 12th birthday party.

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE POEM: Sleep-Over

Late at night,
the crickets chirping,
we stay up in the tent,
talking of times past.

Then up in the loft,
we whisper jokes,
and it takes all our willpower,
just to control our laughter,
which is threatening to escape,
like a wild bull,
that plunges through, overturning everything.

Going for a walk,
the streets are empty and silent.
The moon shines down,
resting high above our heads,
like a watchful predator in the night.

The wind dances gently,
soft and light as a feather,
or like the leaves that fly and swirl,
in the autumn breeze.

Beneath our bare feet,
the pavement is cool,
and seemingly smooth,
though in reality rough.

The houses are dark,
the people asleep within.
No one to see us,
to join us in our journey.

Returning to the tent,
all of them asleep,
we try to do likewise.

But still the excitement lingers,
the feeling of satisfaction,
that inevitably comes,
with our midnight adventure.

And as usual, I clearly didn't understand the proper use of the comma.

Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 4)

APOLOGY POEM: Sorry About That

Sorry I put that stuffed animal,
right on top of your half-closed door.

It must have scared you when you opened it,
and the toy fell down at your feet.

But I really must say that when it fell,
the look on your face made me laugh SO hard!

Okay, I was debating about whether to put that one up, but I think it's a nice change of pace from the others. Oh, and the look on my brother's face really was pretty funny. Heh heh.

Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 3)

I really rather like this poem. It made me happy just to read it.

FREE VERSE POEM: Moods of the Days

When it drizzles,
ever so slightly,
like a mist of freshness,
cool to the touch,
that always feels wonderful,
especially on summer days.
When the sun shines,
even through the clouds,
yet still it rains,
a thrilling sight.
Those are the times,
I feel a glowing contentment,
spread throughout me,
as I skip through the streets.
All my worries float away,
on the magical blanket,
that only mist can form.

When it pours,
and it's muddy and cold,
the earthworms wriggling,
glistening and pink.
When the twigs,
so tiny,
are pressed until they snap,
by the relentless rain,
coming down furiously.
Those are the days,
I feel gloomy,
tired and without stamina,
ready to collapse,
short-tempered.

When it snows,
all fluffy whiteness,
like soft feathers,
resting gently on the ground.
And the sparkling specks,
follow careening paths,
twirling and flipping,
as they try to reach the ground.
That's the season,
when I am always wide-awake,
alert and watchful,
the light reflecting from the snow,
dazzling in my eyes.

When the wind chills,
a knife slashing across the skin,
stripping the leaves from the branches,
whisking away the garbage cans.
That's the time,
when I shiver,
and wish I could go to sleep,
but the wind does not permit it.

My favorite kind of day,
is when it's the beginning of spring,
where everything is green,
when newborn animals,
come out to begin their life in the world.
The sun shines,
a gentle, warm glow,
not stifling,
not humid in the least.
The wind blows,
a gentle, soft breeze,
that blows my hair back,
and lets the leaves fly,
swirling up their small tornadoes.
The air is fresh,
with a smell saying, "NEW!"
neither cold nor hot,
but warm and cool.
This kind of day,
the best of them all,
is the time when I am happiest,
light as a feather,
as if nothing in the world,
no matter how heavy,
could ever weigh down my high spirits.
I can't help but be cheerful,
in my mysterious way,
and when I am frustrated,
all that is needed,
is a look at the lively world outside.

Putting aside for the moment the abundance of unnecessary commas everywhere, I didn't know I was capable of being this descriptive. Whoo, I actually shivered imagining all that.

Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 2)

Okay, a forewarning before I share this poem: I was NOT abused as a child, and the poem has nothing to do with child abuse. Don't get too freaked out.

SCAR POEM: My Childhood

Punched in the face,
shoved into the wall,
glared at,
'till the shivers run down my spine,
tickling faintly,
but in a horrid way.
Shouted at,
ignored continuously,
and when something is wanted,
shoved off to fetch it.
Forced to sit still,
to be taught new things,
and how to do them,
so I can be useful.
All tensed up,
I hold my breath,
not daring to cry out,
not letting a sound escape.
For if I should get up,
as if to leave,
then would come the footsteps,
and a quick, smarting strike.
Such is my life,
the only one I know at the time,
where terror rules the day,
and nightmares rule the night.
And yet there are the good things,
that exist in spite of this.
Five years old,
I escape to school,
where the kids are my age,
and all are shy like me.
I meet new friends,
lifelong ones,
who I can trust implicitly,
who'll never let me down,
who help bring out my personality,
which has been trapped inside me,
never daring to show its face.
Gradually,
my newfound confidence strengthens,
and I venture out to higher things,
letting myself get rid of my stress,
burying myself in schoolwork.
And then one day,
my problem disappears,
quite suddenly,
forever, it seems.
But still it hurts,
to remember the days,
back as a little child,
when terror lived inside my house.

Umm... actually, I think I'll decline to comment on this one. I remember what I wrote it about, but I like it more for the writing itself than for what it refers to. It's a scar poem, after all.

Heather the 12-year-old poet (no. 1)

While going through my high school stuff, I came across a rare gem -- my K-8 English portfolio. The single most intriguing piece in the entire folder was a poetry project from 7th grade, appropriately entitled "Heather Chan's Stupendous Poetry Project from the: [insert hand-drawn image of shining lightbulb] Imagination". I think I must have been having a wacky day that day.

Now, I've never enjoyed poetry all that much, nor do I consider myself to have any talent at it. I was thus amazed to find that I sort of enjoyed reading some of my poems rather than simply cringing and throwing them out at once. More fascinating than my childish grasp of the literary element was simply being able to hear how I thought as a 12-year-old.

I thought I'd post a couple of the poems just to have them around after I stick this project in my "to be saved" crate, and also just in case anyone else finds them as amusing as I do. Here comes the first poem in the packet...

PERSONAL POEM: "Me"-Self

My name is Heather, meaning "earth child," my teacher says.
I can't think why that could possibly be!
I think of myself as more of a person in flight than on earth.
Not stabilized, like the flower "heather," I love to try new things,
often enjoying them, but sometimes not.
Though I hate it, kids seem to look up to me, hearing my name.
Especially Tom Swart, who keeps insisting,
that what "Heather" really means is "the smartest."

I couldn't really imagine having another name.
"Heather Chan" is so well suited to me!
In fact, the two words are inseparable, since always, it seems,
and they will always be in times to come.
That's the name by which everyone knows me,
and in fact, I don't often answer to "Heather!"
It needs the "Chan" for the special ring,
to which I always answer.

Inside me, there lives a monkey, wild as the wind.
Very clever in most situations, but panicky in some.
I can be SO dense at the stupidest times,
it's a wonder that kids still have respect for me.
One of my friends once joked to everyone,
"The thing that Heather Chan lacks is common sense!"
I can honestly see why anyone might think so.
I really can overlook the obvious at times!

There are thousands of elastic bands within my heart.
With my friends and family, or new people that I meet,
when someone is sad or lonely, the elastic stretches out to them,
and I try my hardest to make them happy and forget their problems.
But when someone betrays my trust, their elastic band can snap in an instant!
It will take a long time to replace theirs with another one.
Once it has happened once, I can't be sure when it will happen again,
and so, I am much more cautious when stretching out if they need it.

On my forehead, there is a word printed in bold, black letters: Contradiction.
This is because I am a MASS of contradictions as far as my personality goes.
I will be unbelievably thoughtful and farseeing one moment,
and the next, I'll be off in another world, oblivious to my surroundings.
I will surprise my friends from time to time by going out of my way to make them happy,
but then I will become angry and mean one way or another.
Sometimes I'll help people openly when they need it but don't ask,
but other times, I will help them without their ever knowing it.

I love the sound of outside, the leaves rustling, the animals playing.
I love to hear the calls of the birds as they fly overhead in the trees.
I like to lay down on the grass, all stretched out,
and listen to the world on sunny, breezy days.
What I hate to hear is thunder, as the crack of lightning illuminates the sky.
I hate it because I know that with each flash and boom, lightning strikes somewhere,
and somewhere in the world, destruction is taking place,
whether it's in the middle of a forest, or right near someone's home.

My favorite time of day is in the afternoon, after school.
I am free from the pressures of school and learning.
Free to play, and to enjoy myself, I run about in the outside.
I could call up a friend, and go hang out, swim, or maybe go for a bike ride.
There are also trees to climb, piles of leaves to jump in,
and in winter, there's always the snow to wallow in.
The afternoon is always fun for me and my friends,
when it's a nice day outside, perfect for playing.

If they could speak, my hands would say how they wanted a break.
A break from playing instruments, from writing, from typing this poem,
and from just holding things, and playing with them.
My hands never do seem to rest, busy as they are all day long.
I wonder if they could take a break for a day,
and maybe have my feet do things instead.
My hands are very special, and they help me to do many things.
I think they really do deserve a break!

I remember walking through the woods by my neighborhood,
a couple of years ago, with some of my friends.
We pushed our way through the brush, laughing the whole time,
until we burst into a clearing, and saw a little creek running by.
It was only perhaps 3 feet wide, and so we decided to leap across.
After we had done so, we glanced around us, and saw something very odd.
There was a log cabin on the bank, half of its ceiling collapsed,
and a chair lay on the ground by it, marred by many dents and scratches.

Something my brother says each and every time to me,
whenever I have done something extremely well,
always makes me feel good inside, and hopeful,
that I can be even better the next time.
This phrase that he uses to express his approval,
is sometimes echoed by my family and friends,
and he uses the same exact words every time:
"Heather, you never cease to amaze me, you know that?"

And there it is. My immediate thoughts after/while reading this:

1. Hmm. I wonder if the punctuation is actually supposed to go outside of the quotation marks.

2. I should see if Tom Swart is on Facebook.

3. Wow, even back then I was "Heather Chan". What am I going to do when I get married?

4. There's a monkey living inside me?!

5. I still lack common sense.

6. I had more fun after school as a kid.

7. The log cabin anecdote is kind of random. Maybe we were supposed to mention an adventure or something.

8. My brother is awesome.

[EDIT: Ooh, sorry about the spillover from the longer lines. Too lazy to figure out how to make it not do that.]