December 23, 2010

My Dancing Pants

I love to wear my dancing pants
When I wear them, boy do I prance
I prance Nashua to Hong Kong
I remember when they used to be too long
But at night I fold them away
And save some fun for another day

Christmas Time Haiku

Christmas time is great
I love getting out of school
See you next year, Greene


Slowly the snow falls
Ambiance so still and calm
Time goes by slowly

So cold and freezing
night is long, a time to bond
the fire so warm

Dancing Pants

I love to wear my dancing pants
and skipand prance in a fancy stance
my life revolves around this act
so flawlessly, I can interact
as I make my way accross the floor
my dancing pants fly out of the door
I still am dancing flawlessly, but
without regard for the law you see


I see them in the hallway,
It's something i can't bear.
They seem to be multiplying everyday,
I cannot stand the color of their hair.

I avoid them on the streets, in the halls, and on the bus.
Their red hair drives me crazy, and they tend to look like trolls.
I know it seems like I'm creating quite the fuss,
I avoid them because rumor has it, they like to steal your souls.

Ipse Dixit

The sky is blue is not a fact,
it's an ipse dixit, to be exact.
There's no proof of the color of the sky.
Those who claim blue, are just telling a lie.

The blue that you think you see
is merely an illusion, a mere fancy.
Don't trust it because your eyes decieve
What you see is not what you should believe.

A Poem for Quattro

This is one of the first poems I wrote, and it is dedicated to my car. See if you can decipher the hidden message. Aside from that, how are the rhymes?

You came so fast, it was like a dream
Purring so loud, damn, we make a good team
The second I saw you, I knew it was love
The way you look... you must be from heaven above
When I turn you on in the morning,
You get hot real quick
When I go to shift you, I have to touch your stick
Up all night, exploring the town
But later on, it all goes down
You're my reason for living, you're my escape
I could play back our memories like playing a tape
When you're not with me, I feel so alone
The second you come back, you put me in the zone
Come back to me, I miss you so
We'll ride off into the sunset and never let go...

One of the Journal Entries from my short story.

March 24th, 1871

Do you know what the best thing in the world is? Watching Death Sea go under. A ship with many memories, the ship I grew up in since I was 5. But now washed away and in Sea’s world. I was close to Davy Jones’s grip, but I got away. Alas me lad, this isn’t the first time that I have encountered Jones’s. (But strangely it’s better than receiving a Black Spot. Uncle Edmund got one 5 years ago, and the next day he was found dead along the shoreline.) It’s like I have been cursed since the day I was born. But now I’m a 20 year old man, all alone in this rowboat, with a bottle of rum, a true pirate’s friend. Even my duffle is empty. There’s only some loot, a compass, my bottles of ink, me rum, an old map and me feathered pen. I’m a chowderhead for not taking my things when I heard the cannons from afar. But am I a silly pirate for carin’ about me old crew? Oh devil, I’m a love pirate.

The sea is different when you’re all alone. It’s calm and eerie. But I’m not afraid of the old ocean. But being all by myself… Maybe I am afraid of being alone at night. I had a cabin. Now it’s just an old rowboat, a tiny ship at the least. Other pirates could come across my boat, jump in and kill me in an instant. It’s crazy. I don’t remember the codes remarking any killing. The sea is inspiring me.

A pirate’s way is the only way
To kill another and go for the prey!
To steal the loot and grab the bay
A pirate’s way is the only way.
But what happens when a pirate
Is a man of his word?
And the word for him is never to kill
To meet another pirate, and sail with thee
A friendship that lasts as long as the Sea
This pirate’s way is the only way.
The only way for me.

It’s getting dark, the sea is about to become black with mystery. I won’t be able to write in this until morning. I have 2 bottles left of ink. I remember before that an old Pirate once said that writing wasn’t a trait for a Pirate. I may be a chowderhead (Another word for stupid, also something I’ve learned with writing.) at some points in time, but a Pirate with intelligence and understanding, is a Pirate that will get the loot.

Eli Hurdam

poems poems poems

A cool calming breeze,
flows gently through the forrest,
to tell us springs here.

The Small Corgi

This is a poem I had to write for class.

Its short, fuzzy legs
Try to walk across the floor
Slipping and sliding towards me

His long body wiggling
Desperatly trying to reach me
So he can grasp the treat in my palm

His big ears
Larger than his whole head
One of his best features.


When I saw that look in your eyes
My heart stopped beating.
How was I suppose to know
That at that moment
Your heart stopped beating to.
The only difference being
Mine restarted, then you took your last breath.
Mommy tells me your in a better place
But when I look around your not here.
How can you be away from me
But be in a better place?
I want you to be here
Be wrapped up in my arms
To wipe away my tears
And tell me its all right.
I love you
I love you so much
But I guess this time
Love just wasn’t enough.
So don’t cry
Don’t be sad
Your out of pain

What do you think of this poem?


Restless and consuming,
The ocean takes you in.
Devilish and corrupting,
The soul makes you sin.
Through the battle


men will lay

with turbans and towles

on their head

the battle was


the blood will


on the minds

of all that day
Gray outside
through the glass

no snow, no rain
just trees

faded black


overwhelming heat
crashing waves foaming over
sooths the scorching sun

A Dictionary

I wrote this when we were talking about Williams Carlos Williams. Can you tell what I'm talking about without reading the title?

red corners frayed
thin binding falling off
yellow stained pages

thousands of words, vandalized
haughty messily circled
few shiny gold words


A street with houses flanking either side, with dirty and rundown qualities

With trash through out the gutters and flickering lamps give the only light

People with hoods lie in the dark with angry faces, while holes in the houses let out small sounds of babies crying

The flashing lights of the police car stop where the hooded people stand, they run fast through the darkness of the houses.

Flower to Flower

One blow of the wind
and off she goes.
Flapping her wings
with a breeze in her nose

Sadness I feel
Because I want her by me.
Happiness enters
because she is free.

Roaming around
hopping from flower to flower.
Not looking back
as I get sadder and sadder.

Come back to me
my beautiful butterfly.
You are unique and exotic
and I tell you all the time.

Hold on to me
as the wind gently goes.
Hold on tighter
as the gale violently blows.

Pianist in a Bar

A poem I wrote while we were reading poems by William Carlos Williams.
White keys,
Ebony keys,
Fingers drift,
Notes and rhythms.
Tone smooth,
Notes light,
As they drift out of the bar,
Not a customer in sight.

December 22, 2010

fall = cool

The trees are so great
I love when they change colors
Hooray! fall is fun

a masterpiece, am I right?

Ghost Town

No sounds heard
In the towns of dust

Rattles slither
Patterns shake

Across the paths
Forged new ground



Carving pumkins is
something you can do in fall
go and eat the seeds.

Let Me Be - Poem

The hand I was dealt,
Was worse than the belt.
As my body fell,
There was no way to tell.
As the blood came down,
My lips held a frown.
Pain held inside me,
Please just let me be.

A poem I wrote a few days ago when we first started the Poetry unit. Not a happy poem though. What do you think?

Metaphor Poem

Let me know if you get the metaphor.

Slithering, slimy, sneaky, and cold
he moves in the shadows; unseen.
Clever and cunning
he knows what he wants and how to get it.

Scales slide across the smooth ground
invisible until he shows himself.
Cold and cruel are the means to an end
he conceals his motives from all.

He plays on your fear and hope
hissing in your ear ever so softly.
Yellow eyes, green skin, and porcelin fangs
hypnotize you into his plans.

Once in his trap there's no escape
words hiss out as he delivers a strike.


Relaxing on a summer day,
enjoying a rutabaga,
when suddenly I realize, I don't want to stay.

I go to leave, I grab my rucksack,
with my mongoose bike and rutabagas,
there's no need to come back.

My dear Lola, or Al's clubhouse as Greene has said,
she's calling my name,
I'm gone, to paint this town red.

Any suggestions to make it better?

December 3, 2010

comments? suggestions?

Charles Porter put down his hat and got comfortable. It would be a long

four hours today. He sat in his car, binoculars in one hand, and a tape recorder in the

other. He clicked the record button.

“This is C.P. I’m waitin’ outside the Hills Salon, watching the subject. She seems to

be in for a haircut and a perm. I think she will be heading to either her husband’s

house, or to get her son,” he said calmly as he talked into the tape recorder. He was

now working overtime to help out an old friend who was looking for his son, who he

was trying to get custody of. He hated to get involved with the marital crap, but when

it involved a kid, he felt the need to. He tried to think it was the good guy in him that

made him take those kinds of cases, but he knew the real reason why. He knew that if

he could reunite a child with his parent, then he wouldn’t seem as bad as a father

himself. But no matter how many cases he accomplished, he would still be a dead

beat dad after they were done. The high only lasted for a few hours, and then he

would start to think about Meredith. He hated to think about her now while on the

job, but she kept flooding his brain. Meredith, his beautiful ten-year-old he hasn’t

seen for longer than an hour at a time in her life. She was his, but not his. Another

man had entered her life when he left it. As he walked down the steps, knowing he

would be losing his place in her life forever, it bothered him. He was fighting the urge

to run back in, scoop her up, and kiss every single one of her tiny baby fingers. He

wanted to kiss her milky cheeks, and feel her heartbeat on his chest. But instead, he

kept walking. Charles knew it was wrong, but at the time it just was right. He

couldn’t provide for her while he was driving around town, hiding and stalking

people for hours at a time. Charles couldn’t be there to change her diapers, or wake

up with her. He had to turn over tapes, and sleep in his car. He had pictures, but not

much. It was just a reminder of what he could have had. And as she grew up, losing

her dimples, and blonde curls, he saw her less. But every year he never forgot to send

her a birthday card with a wrinkled ten in it. Charles stared sadly out of the car

window and breathed heavily. He had no idea why he was searching for someone

else’s child when he couldn’t even find out have to salvage his own relationship.

Charles put his Volvo in reverse and drove away from the salon. He would

get back to his subject sometime today, but for now, it could wait. And besides, she

wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry; she was a large, slow-moving woman. He

drove down I-90 imagining what he would say. I’m your dad. Hey there sweetheart,

remember me? I’m sorry… I should have called. Nothing seemed to fit. Beads of

sweat were pouring off his face as he gripped the steering wheel. Charles glanced

around, and loosened his tie.

”I should turn around,” he said out loud.

“Damn it! Don’t be a chicken! This is your daughter, not the army you’re facing!” He

screamed at himself. But as Charles thought about it, it felt like he was entering a new

dimension, ready to fight a war.

He made a sharp turn into a gas station, hoping to buy sometime. He sat in the car

and pulled out a twenty from his wallet, handing it to the black man at his

window. The man walked back into the store, and soon came out.

“What type of gas would you like sir?” The gentleman asked. Charles looked at

the man’s wrinkled face.

“Uh put in regular please.” The man nodded and started to pump. From inside the

car, Charles was relaxing. When the time came, everything would work out-he

hoped. A light tap made him turn his head.

“It’s done,” the black gentleman said. Charles looked at him confused and got out

of the car.

“But that was what, five gallons?” he asked.

“Sir your car was already very full when I started,” the man told him. Charles

nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well can you wash my windows please?” he asked. The man nodded. Charles sat

back into his car.

“You seem troubled,” the man said. Charles looked at him sheepishly.

“Yeah, sorta,” he admitted.

“You are stalling something. I can tell.” The man smiled at him as he washed.

Charles stayed silent.

“You shouldn’t be afraid. Whatever it is, it will turn out alright.”

“How do you know about my problems? I’m pretty sure this is nothing you’ve

ever had to deal with.”

The man whistled and went around the side of the car. Charles watched him


“Everybody has problems. I know I do. But I’m not trying to get into

your business, I’m just saying you seem worried,” the man said. He came

around and stood near Charles.

“All set sir.” Charles reached into his pocket and offered him a five.

“I can’t accept it,” the man refused. Charles slowly put the

money back into his pocket. The old man saluted him.

“Go to her, she’ll understand,” he said. Charles smiled puzzled, as he pulled out

of the gas station.

ok yall, im curious if you feel a strong emotion when reading this. does the ending make you think he will go see his daughter, or is it not enough information.....