Falling Into Consciousness

"Eulogy for a Professor," 8/14/11

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Tue, 16 Aug 2011 03:04:00 +0000

Somehow, it is fitting
that I have forgotten
that title of office
by which my peers and I
addressed him twice-weekly,
"Professor So-and-So,"
the name that,
to us,
summed him up.

For, in the moment that
hot brakes squealed
and God drew his soul
up through the atmosphere
like a rubber band being snapped,

he was Eric.

Eric, his widow no doubt whispered,
as she kissed his brow
for the last time
on this earth.

[Author's note: His departure from us was untimely and incredibly sad. I wish I could thank him for the things he taught me, not only those things he had to teach, but also the ones he chose to teach. I will always cherish the opportunity I had, to be one of his last students before he returned to doing what he loved. Those who can, do, and those who can't, teach. And those who are extraordinary, do both, as he did. Professor, I hope to see you on the other side.]

"The Parasites," 7/14/10

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 04:05:00 +0000

Who will they blame
when they have destroyed everything?
When there is nothing left
of our legacy
but the smoldering ashes of their evils?

Even then,
will they know what they have done?

No.

They will give thanks
that they are alive
to create another generation
in their unholy image.

Even then,
the Earth will be
making preparations
to purge itself
once and for all
of its filthy,
human

PARASITE.

Startled Elf

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 03:38:00 +0000

Power Girl!

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 03:31:00 +0000

"Pain" 11/12/09

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 21:45:00 +0000

"Change," 9/7/09

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 22:22:00 +0000

I find myself increasingly
alone among the crowd, of late,
who once comprised my happy state
and now share not their lives with me.

I dwell on sweetest days that never
will return, and silently I
ask these darkened halls if they know why
familiar ties must sever.

And when I find society
these days, it lies among the small,
who share with me their thoughts and all
their toys, and all the things they saw
that my eyes couldn't see.

Children are unique in that
they aren't always preoccupied
with leaving all the past behind--
because they have no past.

But everything that grown-ups do,
and all the selves that they create,
they must destroy and then remake,
and never do they think that Fate
suggests them what they choose.

I stand atop a tiny island,
watching all my past rush past;
those to whom I clung so fast
slip by and never look toward land.

Oh Change! Nature's intricacy
that's wove like a strong silken thread
or painted in bold strokes of red
in patterns we can't see!

"To Andrew," 11.5.08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Fri, 08 May 2009 00:43:00 +0000

I feel you touch my hand
in small moments that pass like
dandelion seeds on a fall wind.
And I see the sun on your hair
and know that the world is outside
of our little sphere of peace.

Where did you tuck away
those dark words I threw at you
the other day by the park?
You were unable to
retrieve my coldnesses
from wherever it was you put them.

I hear a small warm laugh from you.
Why do you look at me
with eyes that cannot judge?
My eyes are black pools,
taking in no gold sunlight,
and giving none back.

But your love is warm light,
warm enough to melt
the years of frosty vigilance
rimming my icicle heart.
Oh, my gorgeous summer day!
Hold me tightly when clouds pass.

The New Explorer, 4/27/09

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 14:58:00 +0000

Here is the American girl,
the fruit of the American dream,
made possible by Puritan will,
Edison, Henry Ford, and IBM.

Here is the Hispanic surname,
evidence of brave immigrants;
note the cell phone in hand,
the imprint of hard-working parents.

As she dozes serenely on the desk
paid for by her ancestors' dreams,
I notice her bra straps just match
her large, ocean-blue earrings.

Ocean blue, the color of fear
and the shade of unknown hope
as the Puritans made their way down the pier
and embarked for that fabled coast.

And a prayer was on all of their lips
and the salt caked all of their skin.
Something had to be better than this--
what they sought to secure for their kin.

She dreams a dream and it goes like this:
A voice speaks to her in a vast field:
"You will drink from wells ye did not dig
and dwell in houses ye did not build."

"Requiem for Wild Cherries," 2/1/09

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 19:39:00 +0000

Cherries live out their existences
too high for us to take note.
their days are often similar;
they rock in the trees like boats.

But their deaths are always shocking,
and frightfully violent,
as they fling themselves with passion
toward the carnage on the cement.

"Exposed," 10/22/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 05:22:00 +0000

Expose the children
we must expose them
to things they will see anyway
and when they do
(don't be a fool)
they need to be used
to the
shock
us
they
shock us
when we try
to reach out
No wonder they're
shocking
when we have committed
ourselves to exposing them,
(strip them like wires)
then we wonder
why no one can
reach
them today--
whenever we try
they shock us,
they burn us,
then--snap--
and burn out

"Classroom 305," 9/15/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 02:08:00 +0000

A girl speaks about the meaning of
the book, addressing the rows of
students at length and with relish,
and I, sitting quiet in my desk, can
hear nothing but the fan behind
me, whirring conceitedly, freezing
my back, and blowing the pages
of my notebook hither and thither,
and it echoes what she says, its
oscillations keeping time with the
drone of her voice, and she, trying
hard to keep going, throwing words
out everywhere like a pedantic
preacher, some of them occasioning
to hit a fellow student and knock
him unconscious, drooping upon his
desk, is not aware of the grand
symphony she is a part of, with the
fan, her words, and the turning of
pages crescendoing until the final,
crashing note of the clock striking
one, and I want to stop her, shake
her, and say The movement's over,
but she is taken away by the music,
and she launches into a solo.

"A Girl Fell," 9/11/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sat, 06 Dec 2008 03:22:00 +0000

A girl fell in the lane.
The sky was covered in thick
cream-puff clouds so low
the outdoors felt like a room.

A girl fell in the lane.
No sound of cracking branch or stick.
I stopped, the silence was so
deep, no birdsong broke the gloom.

A girl fell in the lane.
Red cobbles gleamed with rain,
in which she sat to see
her foot, bag dropped nearby.

A girl fell in the lane.
Some chilly people feigned
preoccupation, thought it'd be
her stooping, shoes to tie.

A girl fell in the lane.
She never looked to any face
that passed, nor made a sound
to break the day's silent refrain.

A girl fell in the lane.
I hurried to a dryer place.
What good to linger in a town
where girls fall lonely in the rain?

"Classroom 1A," 9/9/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 06:16:00 +0000

Thumbtacks pressed into a wall
stare out at me like multicolored eyes,
dig into the sheetrock like empty, grasping claws.
What news has been pierced
by the sharp frankness of a tack?
What construction-paper projects
with paste oozing from between the layers,
what sensationalist headlines
clipped for educational reasons?--
BAT-BOY DISCOVERED IN JERSEY or
PRINCIPAL FALSIFIES TEST SCORES.
Maybe notes and memos,
mysterious little ascetic scrawlings
passed without a sound.
Or maybe a life-preserving device
once hung importantly there,
such as a fire evacuation route
labeled in imperative red marker.
YOU ARE HERE! --->
Or, perhaps, a displaced artist
stumbled thankfully upon this canvas
and arranged the tacks to represent
the decadence of modern culture,
or an astronomer navigated them
into the constellation of Taurus
hoping a kindred spirit would notice fondly.

"The Watcher," 9/7/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 07:15:00 +0000

Sipping tea of peppermint,
I watch those who pass me by.
Tucked away into a corner,
not enough to catch their eye.

Students heavily burdened
make their way across the school;
Some are laughing, some are scared,
all are trying to seem cool.

I see those that stand and wait,
those that drop their breakfast trays,
those that are stood up by dates,
those that sit and hide their face.

What could any of them know
about the one who watches here?--
Stirring idly in her tea,
toying with a strand of hair?

But I know them all quite well,
those that pass beneath my stare,
and I give them little names,
and meet them every morning here.

Neither names, nor addresses,
do I know or wish to know,
nor jobs, nor acquaintances,
but know important things that show.

For people are a mix of all
the tiny little things they do:
Talking smiling, mumbling, crying,
Kissing, fidgeting, falling, sighing.

Oh, your morning lists to-do,
meeting friends and buying food!
My days never were so new
before I started watching you.

"Dirt," 4/28/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 00:44:00 +0000

Racing from the cover of maples and poplars, I bound up the porch steps and burst through the door. What's happened to you, my mother asks as I dart to the garage and back, hacksaw in hand. You're rusty, she says, her word for red dirt like war paint on my knees and elbows. I'm making a trail, I say, grabbing a cake to take to the work site. But she's already scrubbing an elbow with a dishcloth and I sigh, wondering what mysterious grudge everyone has against dirt. After all, it's the thing we're made of, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Adam and Eve weren't formed of soap, after all, and besides, it's my element--the sign of the bull, making a mess, tumbling across the zodiac. And flowers. How could we marvel at their tiny bursts of color if we couldn't stand the sight of dirt? Also, all the best fairy-tale things are of earth, the Elves and the rainbow-eyed unicorns. And the children, at work in their domains of sticks, mud, and vines, creating new worlds by the sweat of their brows every summer, the badge of their industry to be found on rusty knees, elbows, hands, and noses.

"Struggle #57," 3/16/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 23:52:00 +0000

shiny
souls
brittle
minds
brilliant
wills
thin
love

kindling
theory
ignited
body

vulnerable
life
snuffed

heart

scorned
fears
severed
faith

Girl searching for the right word, spring 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 00:34:00 +0000

animal haiku, 2/29/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 01:42:00 +0000

CAT

I was sunning ere
your intrusion. And just who
do you think you are?

RACCOON

Dark bandit, filches
treasures, perplexed that no one
guards them. Oh, what fools!

FOX

Perfectly still in
pure, holy snow, squirrels taunt
him, cry, "Fanatic."

"Dragon," 2/29/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 00:15:00 +0000

Tales tell of him
feasting on leg of man
and flossing
with peasants' chaps.

At that he shudders.
He lifts his broad muzzle,
looking out toward the sun,
smiles at the warmth.

Turning toward the town,
he sees the men fighting again,
their libraries torched,
their brittle texts dying.

The dragon does weep.
Tonight, he falls asleep
reading of Sir Perceval,
and dreams of mutton.

"Mollymauk," 2/11/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 19:12:00 +0000

My father, age ten,
sneaks down to the pond
on a lazy Saturday
to find crawdads basking under rocks

Brave cowboy
inching along with
Audie Murphy and Hopalong
at his side

Peeks over the rise
and there, rising up like a god,
wingspan overshadowing the waters
--rare bird once thought to be extinct

Boy entranced by Nature, this
awesome mythic creature
neverbeforeglimpsed curiosity
Naturally, he takes a stick and pokes it

What happened then, Dad? I say
as our boat drifts, pontoons
scraping hollowly against
the brush where crappie lurk

Yes, what then? says Andrew,
watching watergliders skitter across the
green-black water. I shiver in the breeze,
impatient for the punchline.

Nothing, my father replies,
surprised at our naivete.
I'd killed it deader than 4:00.
We troll gently, gulls banking overhead.

untitled poem, 1/23/08

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 22:39:00 +0000

English majors believe in education
believe it will save the world
from itself
from Ignorant
from Poor
from Bipartisan
and tooth decay
and monsters under the bed
-----staring yellowly out like Goya nightmares

take it like a medicine
repulsing at first
then a needful thing

drug

to cure mediocrity

pay into it
like a life insurance program
against the day of death
of self

gather literature around you
recite Wilde like a chant
white magic
to fend off vain creatures
-----of business
----------science
---------------comm. and art

and lord, those teaching majors
who believe love
will save the world
not education

that education is a
cold, harsh antiseptic spray
with which to
stamp out
the pernicious molds of
-----compassion
----------kindness
---------------patience

that a teaching license
is a marvelous device
rather like a Trojan horse
a teacher is a doublecross agent
behind enemy lines

undermining the dark system
full of hooded, red-eyed
members of the Board
shedding their scaly Sith skins
as they cut chalk rations
and slash playground funds

untitled haiku, 12/7/07

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 00:45:00 +0000

I

Asked for directions
I feel used, never knowing
If he found his way

II

Hallways of startling
blue with flags--where can I spend
my Christmas bonus?

III

Ever seeking for
The Way. Eyes, look up. The path
ahead says, "Bookstore."

IV

Stopped between beeping
sensors, suspicion rises.
Please return to desk.

"A Short Lie," 4/13/06

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 20:06:00 +0000

It was such a short time,
just a filament in the tapestry.
Thoughts of you made ruts in my mind;
it was the same old story.

So let's don't ever pretend
it was more true than a lie;
I'll live again,
and you never died.

Or did we ever live
till we were together?
Or are we living now?
Or did we wake up ever?

Perhaps my heart had faltered
long 'fore you broke its strings;
Perhaps yours wasn't altered
by any mortal means.

But broke or even absent,
Where'er our hearts may lie,
somewhere you're missing fragments--
I know, for so am I.

With me rests one piece of your heart--
and you keep parts of mine--
Don't call the time we held them short;
I've missed mine for a lifetime.

"Disaster," 7/23/05

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 23:00:00 +0000

You say you're upset and you claim you're disturbed,
but it's I who have jumped every time that I've heard
your name mentioned softly in quick, furtive phrase,
and I can't help reliving those torturous days.
The pain numbed my heart and the numb steeled my brain,
and the happiness left me like sifting of grain.
The anger is gone, and the sigh, and the groan,
and the frown, and the tear--I'm an automaton.
I run from my doubt and the feeling inside
but it follows me 'round; there's no place I can hide,
except deep inside me where no one can come,
where none ever penetrates my shroud of gloom.
So how is the pain? How does it taste
over there on the tongue of Disaster's face?
Tell me, for well do I know that you may,
being Tongue, relate anything you wish to say.
It's a service to those of us topside, her eyes,
who are witness, dispassionate, to all the lies.
Being but eyes, I cannot speak or think--
In defense of myself, I can only blink.

"Abnormalcy," 4/27/05

noreply@blogger.com (Shandra Lorne) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 04:31:00 +0000

Society has a definition--
in a textbook--of normalcy,
and beside that a picture
of what I should be.
Men, women, children,
and all those who see it,
straighten their spectacles,
nodding agreement.
Maybe my lenses
are long due for exchange,
but when I've looked at that picture,
it's not two times the same!
And maybe it's me,
but it seems very small,
so how can they see it
to tell what they saw?