amberj’s writings

strands of colorful symphonies
fill her eyes
with love
strength
beauty
imagining
what will come next
she buries her head
plays with the strands
each telling her a different destiny

as her hair slides gently into the water
like an ocean of colorful strands, dancing
like waves on a beach,
dark and yet so light,
does her heart feel,
for the pain, loss and sorrow, but then also for the
joy, happiness, and gratitude,
as she lays in the water she ponderers, on her hair,
a mismatched color-ment of sorts,
dark fades into light, brown into blond and back again,
with hints of red when her head hits the lights; just right;
she plays with each strand as her own,
wrestling with each knot of contentment, each strand of fear,
each powerful moment that has surrounded her , her hair has changed with her,
now as it captures the waters attention
it seemingly melts into oblivion,
her hair like a river , flowing and changing with her,
now it is slowly coming suffering to an end,
the horror,
the pain,
the suffering,
it is moving to a new era of,
starting new,
starting fresh and clean,
free of dirt,
the damage will always be there,
it will just not be visible;
at least not to an innocent bystander,
only to the ones who look inside,
who see her,
through the pain; and the happiness; there is always damage…

In my senior year of high school we were asked to write a model poem; I picked this poem by:

William Wordworth

“THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON”

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Written in: 1806

—

My (Amber Jentink’s) Poem:

“Looking in a Mirror”

I am a girl looking in a mirror, look

up in the sky, way up high, the night sky I

look. No, wait I see a bird as it passed by

I wonder to myself as I sit by the brook

as I was reading a wonderful book

There is some Canadian Wild Rye

I notice as I am sitting eating my pie

A man comes to me and says “come take a look”

I come and see it, it is a dead bird

I cry and I weep, full of sorrow

Here it comes a large group, a herd

knowing the concequences of morrow.

Although the night is very much preferred

along the tops of Kilimanjaro.

Written in 2004