Oh, Christmas Tree

An Original Snapshot Poem by Elizabeth Lancaster

Pinch, poke,

Clink, ping

Those are the sounds my pine tree makes

If sounds my pine tree could make.

Green and red are the dress of tradition.

Silver and gold scatter branches with fineness.

Because in this moment of time,

A span which lasts for a few short weeks,

We put on the airs of King, Queen,

One blonde princess

And a little bald prince;

All wearing pants with elastic

Holding homemade jewels,

Crowns for a nearly real tree,

Tangled in shiny, flickering bulbs.

We stand there, we four, the royal four.

We gape at red and white striped candy,

A favorite of the princess.

The glittered round bulbs,

Toys for the prince.

Each passing year,

The royal family will continue to pinch and poke ivory fingers

With plastic and hooks, and gleaming lights.

The candy will disappear

And the elastic will expand,

The princess will grow with eloquence

And the prince will grow with hair.

Presley

A ‘Pop-Culture’ Poem by Elizabeth Lancaster

The swoop of his hair

The swag of his style

The soul in his throat

Stopped

The hearts of swooning women

And the star-gazing child

Uh-huh-huh

Uh-huh-huh

Uh-huh-huh

A white bedazzled suit

Contrasted by a shiny, black mane

Brightly glows

Against the hot stage light.

A royal prodigy

His death

The world refuses to accept

A life

They refuse to forget

His honey glazed voice 

And blue suede shoes

Grabbed the generation

Shook it all up

And they all fell

One more bow to The King

Thank you,

Thank you very much!

Twirls in the Rain

A ‘Snapshot’ Poem by Elizabeth Lancaster

Her face smiles

As tiny hands

Collect each drop

Falling steadily from the pale grey sky

Drop,

Drop,

Drop

Falls the rain

As young as the morning

As innocent as the fluttering droplets

She spins

Hair of blonde

A stringy mess

Paints her cheek

Her eyes drip tears of joy

Or tears from heaven?

Heaven knows

Twirl,

Twirl,

Twirl

Goes the yellow dress

Small pools invade asphalt

Beneath her feet

Like tiny polka dots

Her yellow boots stomp

Waking the earth,

Waves rippling the pools to life

One by one

The sky will

Drip,

Drop,

She will

Stomp

Twirl

Until the sun comes back again

To ruin their fun

“Goodbye sweet rain!”

“Good day sweet child!”

The House

A ‘Metaphor’ Poem by Elizabeth Lancaster

It was the house on the corner,
standing like an old man.
Hunched and settled from the weight of its history.
Leaning, faded, condemned.

Its dark, weeping, windows - the eyes

It weeps for the children who used to play

And seek comfort in the smile of its white picket fence

Now yellow, now cracked.

Green, hazy, half closed, eyes
Still peering out onto a world that walks past
Unaware

Of those children that have grown and gone off to war

Will they never come home?

I walked past once, it groaned at me

Perhaps a final attempt to whisper its story

A story of gardens, and book clubs,

A father and his sons.

The old house creaks

Of its beauty, of its history.
Each brick inlays a memory
That may never be heard.

Still, it leans on its solid cane.
A forgotten monument,
A silent heritage.

An Introduction to Poetry

This past semester I was enrolled in a poetry course for school. In the short time I took the class I was asked to write a series of poems (big surprise, huh). I wasn't sure about writing my own poetry - I have always been very skeptical of anything I write and don't really like to share my 'creative' writing, or any forms of writing, for that matter, with many people. However, I have felt like a slacker when it comes to putting pen to paper, or in this case, cursor to blog and thought that perhaps by sharing some of the things I have already written I might push myself back into a routine of posting more. So, following this post, I will begin sharing my poems. I hope you enjoy!

Beth