Living Earth

Anna Boyer

Cooper

CRWR212

March 13, 2014

Creative Work: Living Earth

The start of the trail is marked by a small slab of concrete

Its edges were long ago concealed by silt and pebbles but that is what nature wants

The small rocks crunch pleasingly under my rubber soul.

Looking up at the tapestry of leafy greens,

I think of the age of these living ornaments, as my life has been for but a second.

The clean scent of damp soil envelops my nose, cleaning the dust from my brain

By now, my soul is caked with red clay and mud, glinting in the buttery sun.

Pausing, laying down on a damp pillow of leaves, I curl up into a ball

Somehow, this is a reassuring way to contort my physical self

A deep sigh pushes my body into the soft Earth and I slip to sleep.

From my pocket comes an electronic dinging sound, ushering me to consciousness

I stir my cramped muscles back to life and take a big stretch, reaching for the treetops

They reach back with their slender fingers, radiating a forgotten energy.

The Earth is living in all its dimensions

My clothing is soaked with the water that the earth did not want

The air is chilly and the breeze stings my skin

An electric yellow sun sits low in the sky, reminding me of the passage of time.

I return to the start of the trail and to that grubby strip of concrete

The beauty of that dirt becomes apparent to me, as more than the stuff that blackens the nails

For that day, I simply existed

And it was grand.

This Tepid Sector

Lexie Johnson

Cooper

CRWR 212

13 March 2014

This Tepid Sector

I like it here. 

Its calm, cool, and serene

with the wind blowing slightly to the East. 

The green grass glimmers

in the vibrant sunlight.

There are no clouds in sight.

The sky is clear and wide 

like innocent blue eyes.

Seven beautiful bare trees stand tall against the wind.

I lay down, close my eyes and feel the earth

beating with me. 

The ground is cool, firm and spacious, it relaxes me. 

For a second 

there is total silence

then the wind starts another musical number.

The  wind sends shivers down my back

um I think a storm is coming

but right now I like it here. 

Familial Festivities

Claire Smithers

Joseph Cooper

CRWR 212

3/6/14

Familial Festivities

Every holiday is like opening up Pandora’s box.

Bodies weave in and out, voices fight for power;

Metal spoons incise family heirloom iron pans.

Bread is broken; the warm steam escapes as if it was trapped.

Wine is poured; the flowing sound drowns the chatter.

Cheese is spread; the smell of its age engulfs the room.

The intertwining paths in the kitchen are a dance,

The steps seem rehearsed through experience.

The intermingled steps are like the roots in our blood.

Feast and festivity are a familial familiarity.

Laughter, cheer, dishes, and drinks,

These are the traditions that keep our English blood flowing.

Being Irish

Rebecca Moore
Joseph Cooper
CRWR 212
3/6/14

Being Irish

Across the sea they came
Escaping what had been the same
Survival was the game

The family craft was sculpting
Solid rocks and carving
Celtic crosses in the making

The Catholic ways grew old
So the courage became bold
Tired of being left in the cold

Even though you were a teen
There was destruction of the spleen
While you were wearing the green

The Hero

Keisha Strickland

Mr. Cooper

CRWR 212-Y

3/6/2014

The Hero

In a picture frame on the wall, the polished

medals of a hero glitter like stars,

Earned in a war fought long ago.

Hear the roaring cheers of the adoring crowd,

appreciative of the service, of the duty,

of the love for country of the man marching by in the parade.

At home no hero is he, who raises his hand

against the innocent who stand in his way,

protecting a mother thrown to the ground

Alcohol fuels the fire. Flickering,

burning with anger. Fear spreads just as

fast, and as fierce as any flame.

The tales of his heroics are passed down from

generation to generation. Articles are written,

and pride should be felt.

But scars are left on the flesh and

in the mind. The walls are scuffed and dented

with the violent memories of the past.

Where pride should be there is only

sadness, and a lingering question of what

could have been, if there had only been a hero.

Inheritance

Denise Bateman

Joseph Cooper

CRWR 212 Y

March 6, 2014

Inheritance

 

He was returned to the ground years before I took my first breath, laid to rest

one cold November morn on a rocky knoll overlooking the woods he loved, rain mixing

with grandmother’s tears and red Carolina clay as both blanketed the homemade coffin.

 

I am told he was a quiet man, reserving his words for things that mattered,

more likely to speak simply with a glance from his dark onyx eyes, or a gentle gesture with

calloused hands that had hoed out a farmer’s living one season to the next.

 

Outward appearance is only a fraction of a man.  Underneath that unimposing exterior

beat the heart of a warrior, pulsing with the Cherokee blood that fueled a restless 

 fever in his soul, proud blood that now runs diluted through my own veins.

 

Looking in the mirror as the granddaughter he never knew, I smile at my own reflection.

Strong cheekbones, ebony eyes, and raven hair – gifts passed from him to me as surely as

my gypsy spirit was breathed into me by ancestral ghost.

 

This is my inheritance. As I walk the family land,  past the timberline toward his grave,

I hear him call to me in the whisper of the breeze, or the rustle of leaves, and I speak


his name aloud, assuring him he is not forgotten.

Monique Ahmad

Professor Joseph

CRWR

6 March 2014

The Family Continues

Vague memories from my childhood

of things too shiny for me to understand.

What it’s like to experience motherhood:

To pass on memories from your mother to

You your own innocent children.

My Mommie takes out a box too:

It had a lock

and a zipper!

Why so much shock:

Because of all the shine!

So pretty!

Can it be mine:

Please Mommie!

Yes, baby (she smiles at me)

Umm...What is it Mommie:

A pearl and ruby neck less.

Wow! How much is it?

Priceless:

The value your grandmother and mother

give it is endless.

I will love it forever mother:

One day I will have a piece of my family

and I will give it to my children.

Who, hopefully, will pass it on to their family.

The family will continue.  

Card Games

Deyanira Bustos

Joseph Cooper

CRWR 212

03/06/14

My house was full with people.

Laughter and voices echoed all around

and everything was very joyful and exciting.

The adults were sitting all around the table

With beer bottles and alcohol everywhere.

They were playing card games.

A huge pile of money was placed at the middle of the table.

They all took their turn and were very tentative and pensive.

It seemed like an interesting game to me.

I would sit and watch in the corner.

I would watch their every move.

It was all very fun and interesting to just sit and watch.

They would tell me I was too young for all of that.

And they were right.

I had no money and I couldn't consume alcohol either.

This would go on for hours and hours, for days.

Sleep was not something that existed or was even thought of.

It was perfect to me.

This would occur every year during winter and summer.

I didn't want those days to end, but when they did,

I would wait anxiously for my family to come back from Mexico and visit again.

Always Do Better

Crystal Fulp

Cooper

CRWR 212Y

3/6/14

Always Do Better

As a little girl I can remember watching mother get ready for work.

She was always work, work, working; sometimes more than one job.

As she was running out the door she would yell, “Always do better!”

Throughout the years things never changed.

She always worked and I barely saw her.

Late at night, long after my homework was done, she would come and say, “Always do better.”

The older I became the more mother worked.

I would clean the house, do the laundry, work, and get straight A’s.

She would come home tired, smile and say, “Always do better.”

I thought I was doing better by graduating high school.

I would be the first to do so in my family.

After the ceremony she held me tightly and said, “Always do better.”

I then took off to college, which was another family first.

I remember her saying how proud she was of me, she always so supportive.

At the end of every semester, no matter the grades, she would say, “Always do better.”

Now it’s my senior year of college.

It’s been a long and tedious journey full of lost time, sweat, and tears.

Mother’s message has remained unchanged, “Always do better.”

Now, I think I can finally see the light; I also understand.  

All she wanted was for me to do better than she had done.

The other day she finally hugged me and said, “You’ve always done better.”

Cynicism and Family Lineage

Anna Boyer

Cooper

CRWR212

March 6, 2014

Stanza Poem: Cynicism and Family Lineage

Uncle Paul passed away the summer that I turned seventeen

How can one be sad about the passing of a person they never knew existed?

My cynical teenage mind wrestled with the idea as I filled a suitcase

Rolling through the Shenandoah Valley like a darting silver beetle is a suburban staple minivan

Virginia humidity gave the tall grasses and taupe mountains a luster

Coming to a hallowed family place for a eulogy made such beauty eerie

We knew of the rural nature of the relatives in these parts

My sister and I laughed a little, imagining overalls and cowboy boots

So informal but give so much

The gravestones stood grave and gray under the blazing Southern sun

A green funeral tent was perched precariously on the cusp of a rolling hill

As if it too was summoning feelings of sadness that didn’t come

Here we all stood, beneath the rolling mountains that seemed to stretch forever

Celebrating the life of a man whose personality couldn’t be nailed down

His life was a mystery to many, and yet became so familiar to me

Paul worked at the grocery store and kept to himself

Informally and quietly giving so much and expecting so little

That struck a chord in my cynical teenage heart

They Never Asked

Lexie Johnson
Cooper
CRWR 212
6 March 2014

They Never Asked

I don't know why.

I don't know how.

I just never had to. 

My parents never asked me.

Maybe they didn't care.

It was just me... alone. 

I had my blanket,

then I had my doll,

now I have my teddy bear. 

I was a loner

and my parents knew that

I was the child that did everything right.

So what was the point of talking

when they already knew,

but they didn't know and they still don't know...

It was a lonely world.

I never had to express my feelings,

not to anyone ...only to myself. 

So now when he asked me

how do I feel?

I keep everything to myself.

He wonders why I never express,

why I never tell him how I feel

and the only thing I manage to say is 

I don't know why.

I don't know how.

I just never had to express my feelings. 

  

Christian Lineage

Kaitlin Dixon

Prof. Cooper

CRWR 212

3/6/2014

Christian Lineage

It’s a Sunday morning service in a Southern Baptist Church with stained glass windows.

A small child with bouncing blond curls is singing along with the invitation hymn.

She feels a tiny tug from inside her chest and takes a small step.

She walks down the aisle with hands shaking at her sides, looking from left to right with wide eyes.

She knew what she wanted but was nervous as she made it to the front.

The red pew pillows and following eyes all filling her sights for a moment.

She takes the preacher man’s hand and motions for him to get down on his knee.

Her eyes trailed from the preacher man with his big bald head to her mom where she sang.

"I have to tell you something" the little girl held up her small round hand "It's a secret".

“I want to talk to Jesus” she whispers in his ear “I want to give him my heart”.

He smiles down at her and leads a quiet prayer with her.

As they talk to God she feels a sort of warmth inside, she knows it means God’s hugging her.

Her mom smiles from the pew they sit at on Sundays.

She has little water drops dangling from her eyes.

The little girl crinkles her brow in confusion.

She moves towards her, leaving the preacher man alone.

As she returns to the pew she wraps her short arms around her mom's waist.

Her mother's short red hair dangled in her eyes as she stared at her little girl, still teary eyed.

“Mommy don’t cry. I just want Jesus to know I love him like you!” she squeals.

Her mother laughed and said “darling, these are not sad tears that fall.”

They embrace and the day was filled with joy.