"Like Nothing Else" - a poem of unique magic and wonder

Like Nothing Else

By Adrienne Clark

Nov. 22, 2010

1^st real snow of the year.

All-permeating light,

That peachy glow

All night.

Ground to cloud and down again,

A soft, pink sandwich.

The taste of freshest, best restaurant’s water,
With a pinch of nature
No human artisan can create,
Melts in your mouth.

That smell—

Faint smoke plus cold plus

Something impossible to name,

Yet your nose knows it

Hours away.

The sound—

“creak, crunch, creak,”

Light flakes compact beneath your feet

Make your marks on this newborn world,

However transitory they may be.

The lack of sound—

The only noise the closest voices

And a car one block down.

Nothing beyond,

Save a down comforter muffler

Around your personal world.

Crystals sting your eyes,

Fluffy angels align with your tongue,

You spin around,
Face lifted and arms open to the pouring sky.

This magical miracle unique in all the world,

Enfolding our world,

Clothing our world

With the pure gauze of Heaven.

Seattle U behind Pigott

My deck

My backyard

"A Wondrous Place" - my first real, good poem

This is the first really good poem I ever wrote (in 3^rd grade), preceded only by one decent poem for a 2^nd grader. But this one won a bunch of contests and stuff. It was really the experience of writing this poem that got me into poetry.

A Wondrous Place

By Adrienne Clark

November 1999

A wave of excitement floods o’er me,

For I know the place that I’m bound,

‘Cause humans dream forth of it everywhere,

In nations on Earth all around.

This place I am going is wondrous,

It meddles with hardworking minds,

Unharmful it is to all people,

It plays with the words it entwines.

But not every heart longs to be here,

Yet to everyone it has been told.

This place I shall go is a poem,

In my very own heart and soul.

"Unheard Sound" - an answer to a philosophical question my dad often asked me

My dad often asked me this question: "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, is there any sound?" Finally, I came up with a reply. Here is my answer:

Unheard Sound 

By Adrienne Fiona Clark

March 2003

Silence in the wood.

Alone.

No sound of footsteps

No cracking twig

No living life to befoul

The beauty of the loneness.

Ancient newborn

Old, but young in the eyes of Creation

Tallest in the forest

A tree stood.

It knew its time had come.

(It had cracks in its bark to prove its point)

And it chose that moment to fall

Defying the very defiance of gravity

It yearned to touch the ground.

Writhing stretching twisting

Tearing out the very roots of the earth

It tottered

tipped

trembled,
Tremors shook its every fiber,

A leaf twitched...

And then slowly

Oh so slowly

It tiptoed through the air

To kiss the ground.

And it made no noise.

It created pulsing waves of air

Radiating into the universe

Moved by all its sheer force

And marvelous gentleness...

And there was no one there to hear it.

But somewhere in the cosmos,

Countless light years away,

A star shook and trembled

Because a tree fell in a forest

And there was no one to take in the sound.

I don’t know this though.

Another ancient newborn

Told me the story as I walked by,
With no cracking twigs

And silence in the wood.
Then I was not alone,
For I myself was there as well.


But there is no sound
When a tree falls in the forest
And no one is there to hear it.

"Tears of Heaven" - Washington love poetry

Tears of Heaven

By Adrienne Clark

4/30/2007

Peace is the smell of moist dust sifting up,

filtering from warm, new rain-fallen, dry ground.

Peace is the grey woolen blanket

cradling the earth, enveloping and tenderly enfolding,

In comfortable closeness to the expansive mother’s breast.

Peace is the quiet of retreating residents and emerging birds,

only you and the soft pattering and the natives

alone, at home, together.

Peace is the gentle touch of heaven’s lozenges,

Tears of relieving, calming release, falling just for you,

Clear kisses descending to minutely peck your cheek,

caress your face,

and with its cool grey sheet, cleanse your opened heart.

Peace is the penetrating breath of moist and cool crispness,

Just sharp enough to tingle your outer wrappings

And remind you so powerfully that you are alive.

Two poems of the mountains - my favorite place on earth

(These were both written on top of Mt. Winchester above Twin Lakes, near the Goat Mountains and Mt. Baker.) 

The old fire lookout on top of Mt. Winchester.

Twin Lakes, viewed from the summit.

Alpen

By Adrienne Clark

8/3/06

The vast, broad, expansive valleys…

Rolling continuity from peak to river bed

The sweeping soaring of a whole.

A tiny bubble of perfection, isolated miniature worlds,

of the smallest, natural, delicate beauty…

A minutely perfect flower, lichened stone, spray of vibrant heather, sprig of wily grass,

are everywhere close, with naught but a guided glance. 

The wild scree, the alpine scrubby meadows,

   rounds of  boulders, cracked and caked with growth,

   cascades of stone,

   patched moss, heather,

   strewn curling ferns, small hardy trees,

   bursts of flower…

The wild, determined, untamed slopes.

Rambling, winding up to meet,

The steep, unbroken slide slopes

rise to bare raw rock, so rugged

scarce even a patch of heather to be seen…

Powering forceful upward;

ragged ridge of unfinished thoughts,

sharpened pyramid, no mistaking to where it points,

or rounded statement—stolid—of ultimate power, stability, strength.

Pristine pools, contrast of calm, tiny glitterings,

trickle over clean rocks, spongy moss and bent grass.

Made of melting snow

water clean as air.

Artful scattered bottom

waiting bubbles

tiny, feathered, spreading moss…

Mirror to grass and sky.

Watch the ruffle of wind

On a mountain’s blue mirror—

a lake cradled by, nestled in, its valley—

Slowly grow ‘cross the water…

sheen turned to matte.

Perpetual song of air’s rush through valleys,

snow-freshened, brisk, cleanly clear

fragrance, hint of flora—

Cool, crisp, caressing, refreshing mountain breath

turns to fill your lungs.

To sit for hours with no passing time of mind,

Watch the clouds—fogging mountains, steaming rock, stroking and enveloping

   big-bellied

   misted

   wisped

   growing

   morphing—

Lazily drift across the aqua ceiling.

To follow a shadow across ridges,

down a green slope, up the next scree

reach your perch, blot the sun’s beating heat, and chill…

But it will pass

and move on to dapple the spreading valley once again.

Deep

By Adrienne Clark

8/3/06

reaching pinnacle

sweeping buttress

plunging face,

swooping down to a grand valley

of furry tree carpet through blue haze...

impossibly broad, deeping.

soaring contours...

one jump flies downward, onward, forever

wing ‘round shoulders, river bends, rises

between misted sunbeams.

enormity, space, those ridges embracing... what?

what fills the volume of that great valley?

or the next valley, or the next?

ridge after ridge,

blue mountains stretching through mist and cloud into oblivion.

unnamed, unknown local wonders,

many miracles dwarfed by those more known

each with its own valley of gaping grandeur...

but what can fill such endless air?

Light.

like shining, golden beads of honey,

it gushes up from the valley floor

rolls down the mountainsides

rains from above:

all of nature, plants, stones, sky, beings

pouring forth this sustaining, healing light

from their core which in each is their Creator.

filling up each valley, running over, running deep

rushing up the cliffs to surround me where I sit,

washing me, caressing me, soothing hurts and worries

bringing my straying heart back Home,

this light that cannot be seen with the eyes

but sensed from within...

pouring forth from the pristine mountains

and others... the sea, the Sound, hills, waters, forests...

together they will bathe the sterile, bustling cities

and heal deep the hurts of those there who know Its presence.

but here on my peak, with the light from my valley...

here, it will bless my heart.
 

Illustration by my sister, Christmas present for our parents. You can't really see the mountains
in the background, but I swear they're there. Stupid light gray didn't come out well....

my valley.  <3

Two poems of air, birds, and flight - not bad for a 4th grader

A Bird’s Song Cloud

By Adrienne Clark

January 2000

Whoosh!

Warm white,

Silky feathers,

 A wish,

A prayer,

A dream,

Then up!

My world, a song cloud.

I land singing

A soft, sweet tune.

Quiet.

Leaping birds,

Then down to Earth.

I Fly

By Adrienne Clark

January 2000

I fly,

Soar,

Through the sky,

Wind in my hair.

I see,

Hear,

Forests lush below,

Birds singing softly.

I go,

Come,

To peacefulness,

From a hatred strong.

I wish,

Know,

Freedom’s sweet song,

An endless flight.

I fly.

Two poems of change - moving on can be hard

Moments

By Adrienne Clark

6/25/2009
Written after returning to my high school after many friends the year below me graduated.

(To understand one stanza you need to know that I was the head librarian in Band Council.)

I walk amongst the ghosts of my past

I see myself,

The ghost of myself,

Still standing where I left myself

When I created a still frame of the

moment

In my mind.

The memories are so tangible

That I can almost see myself,

My instruments,

My band,

My boyfriends;

The places I walked,

Where I grew,

Three of my most formative years,

All here…

This was my life.

Now I am an outsider,

I feel it distinctly.

I am now a criminal to come on campus

During the hours I once lived here.

“Out the door,

You are no longer wanted.”

The foreignness swirls around me

And waters my eyes,

Whirls in my stomach,

Shudders in my lungs,

Pulls on my throat

And winds around my heart,

Constricting it ‘til I ache in the core of my chest.

The band room is the worst:

It swarms with phantoms,

So thick I can scarcely breathe.

Everything that was mine:

Cubbies, seats, instruments, friends, cuddles, dances, piggyback wrestling, glowsticks, posters, antics;

Moments.

The smell of music,

My folders,

My system,

My room,

My pride,

MY music…

My one legacy, the only ghost anyone can see,

save me.

I see the spots we stood;

Every hug,

Every kiss,

Frozen in time in that very spot.

I can see two highschoolers as I walk by,

Blind to all else,

Caught in an embrace,

a stolen moment

That is no longer mine,

To which I can never return.

I see myself,

The ghosts of myself,

The ghosts of my past,

frozen moments,

Ice statues in the wind,

That wind of change that swirls around me

And squeezes out my grief,

And spirits me away

To places greater and beyond.

But my traces remain,

Visible to few, perhaps only me,

But I am there.

Shimmering in the air,

my moments,

My art,

My passion,

My family,

My love,

My life.

Once you give a piece of your heart to someone,

You can never quite get it all back.

Once you give a piece of yourself to a place,

You can never quite take it all away.

Do I even want to?

Or should I leave them there,

My

moments.

Where I went nearly every day during morning break.

Mellophone cubby.

My favorite choreographed drum call, Speed²

Tenor sax choreography to Iron Man FTWWWW!!!!

Waves of Time

By Adrienne Clark

June 2002

Written just after I graduated from 6th grade (elementary school in my district).

O childhood!

How the time rushes by!

Like the ocean waves;

They fling themselves at children’s feet

Who dance and splash in the foamy surf,

Squealing in delight

as they chase each other ‘round and ‘round

in the fleeting, engrossing rush.

Then just as suddenly as it came,

It is gone,

Washing over their feet

And trickling between their toes.

And before they can chase after it,

A bigger wave crashes against their feet.

O childhood!

How the time rushes by.

My friends at Lockwood amused ourselves endlessly with building "The Pond" in various locations around the school. As for the cartoons....don't even bother trying to understand them, it only makes sense if you were there.  :P

Almost my entire Lockwood class at our reunion after we graduated.

I spent my last year of elementary school (6th grade) here at Shelton View.

Shelton View playground.

SINUSES NEED TO CRAWL IN A HOLE AND DIE

So for the past week, this has pretty much been my existence:

Pretty pathetic, huh?


But this was what was going on inside my head/face:

I.  Fucking.  HATE.  Sinuses.  X-[


They kinda make me want to do this sometimes:

But preferably this:

Unfortunately, the Hogwarts letters my friends and I got in 5th grade didn't get me into that Charms class. Maybe something to do with the Misses Adrienne, Holly, Lindsay and Kate who wrote them.  ;)

So anyway, being a mere mortal, I am reduced to using a handy little trick I figured out:

It's like, reverse plugging your nose and blowing out, which stuffs up your sinuses (like when you blow your nose too hard). It works magnificently, try it next time you're sick, you'll see.  :)

And then comes my favorite part:

HAPPY PILLS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  =D

God's gift to the nasally congested.  :)  

Unfortunately, part of this is just fantasy, because you can only take one pill every 12 hours. Phooey.  :-(P


Anyway, that's the story of my week and 4-day weekend. And probably your story sometime this winter too. Yaaay for college and no sleep.  X-(

At least drawing all the funny pictures made me giggle.  ^_^   Hopefully you did a bit too.

;)

"I See My Child" - how do you describe a sense to a person who doesn't have it?

I See My Child

By Adrienne Clark

March - November 2010

This is still a work in progress. Comments are welcome. Especially if something seems too cliche or inadvertently involves a "sight" word.
(Yeah, yeah, I used stock photos and pictures from ads, so shoot me)

My eyes are blind, I cannot see,

Since my birth just dark to me.

Well, so they tell me, I do not know,

What is “dark” if that’s all you know?

What is light, what is color?

I can't imagine, only wonder.

But one small bit of sight I own:

My husband taught me the rainbow.

“Red,” he told me, “is like velvet,

Rich and powerful, seductive.

momorialcards.com

“Orange is the heat of embers,

Intense on eyes, like close-up fingers.

kylelightner.com

“Yellow, half again as strong,

Jumps at eyes like cat from arms.

zedge.net

“Green’s the smell of rain on clover,

Fresh, like grass from the lawnmower.

ninna83.wordpress.com

“Blue’s the shade of peace and calm,

How cool streams run across your palm.

gettyimages.com

“Indigo’s a deeper blue,

The cold of night sky over you.

mariobrienza.net

“Purple, tranquil calm of dusk,

Not quite cold, yet day’s warmth lost.

pixelpost.kevincrafts.com

“Brown, the smell of dust and ground,

Earthy, rich, and full and round.

miraclecompost.com

“Grey the feel of dreary rain,

Not light nor hard, just flat and plain.”

edward-weston.com

Black is what he says I see,

I suppose it’s true; it’s color-free.

“But white,” he says, “the touch of wind,

Is pure and fresh, without a sting.

earthbeone.com

“Pink, sound of a young girl’s voice,

A little giggle, darling noise.

rialeephotography.com

“That,” he said, “is like our child,

Silly, yes, but sweet and mild.”

I’ve felt her face, I know its parts,

But not how it speaks to the heart.

life-times.net

Yet finally he found the words

To tell me the dear sight of her.

“Her eyes are glass, with a gleeful dot

As bubbly as soda-pop.

original un-cropped: kellykuntz.com

“Her smile fills her face with joy,

Like a growing, soaring major chord.

life-times.net

“She jumps and twirls in delight,

Like throwing scarves, but thrice as light.

diorgirl.com

“And when she sleeps, her peaceful face,

Is the calm, smooth clarinet of grace.

wix.com

“Then when you hold her, her safe place,

A soft love fills her quiet face.”

tendatot.com

 
“Mama!” I hear feet run to me,

I scoop her up, but now I see.

nwf.org

The tears drip down out of my eyes,

The greatest gift from my husband wise

Is holding my child in front of me,

Knowing my daughter I finally see.

staller.sunysb.edu