A cynical attack on my classmates.

I wrote this for my intro to creative writing class about two years ago while sitting in the courtyard at SFASU. There is a fountain/statue of Stephen F. Austin poised on a surfing star in the middle of the courtyard; it serves as the centerpiece to most of the social interaction on campus. Although this is certainly one of my sloppier poems I did some editing just now; I think it improved it some. Let me know what you think and enjoy (unless you happen to be one of the groups of people I am referring too, in that case what are you doing here? lol)

The Shallow Charade

A posse of prim prey
chatters by with their superficial
smiles and "Oh, my God, really?"
On a star across the yard stands
a darker gent, alone, with a coat
of bronze and a triumphant pose.

Then a herd of all identical brutes,
clad in caps and flip-flops approaches
the prim posse and the ritual begins.
After some "You hittin' up da club tonight?"
and "Ya, totally." fired back in response,
the brutes beat their chests in a display
of power and the prims, giggling, flaunt
their colorful plumage. Shortly after
the shallow charade concludes.

One tribe wanders off to go practice
remedial math, while the other
is undoubtedly off to memorize
the Greek alphabet. The lone one stands,
silently still as I, except I am
observing, and he isn't even there.

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2007 Thomas Taylor

Possible Opportunity

So, I found out that Stephen F. Austin State University, where I attend, is pending approval of a new academic journal for creative writers that will be printed annually and will accept poetry, both fiction and non-fiction, and critical essays. I am very excited about submitting and the possibility of some of my work getting published. I have some pieces in mind and am currently waiting anxiously for the submission period to open. This could be a great opportunity for me to break the ice. Cross your fingers.

I will post again later in the week with some more creative writing; school and work have kept me pretty busy, but stay tuned.

New friend, old work.

Friday, during my short lunch time break between classes, I made a new friend. After getting to know her for a bit I discovered she is also interested in creative writing. We began talking about scansion vs. free-form and I introduced her to the sestina which is a very rigid form of poetry that can take hours, days, or even weeks to finally complete, depending on your level of obsession. It's closer to putting a puzzle together than it is to writing a poem, and I have managed to work out only one of these 39 line beasts. After challenging her to attempt it I feel it's only right, be it to my chagrin, to release my own to the wolves. Here it is, enjoy, it's not just iambic, its a big mix. I sacrificed on alot of the iambic to make it fit the word repetition required but the metre is uniform; be gentle.


Childhood Memories

So there we sat, tingling all over,
staring at the dilapidated house
owned by the crazy old lady Miss. Fitz.
People rarely saw her. Armies of cats
could be seen but never counted, always
appearing and disappearing through holes.

We mustered the courage and emerged, whole
into view, still afraid to go over.
The cats noticed us and came from all ways:
out doors, windows, and from under the house.
We shielded our faces fearing a cat
attack, huddled on the ground like misfits.

The cats stopped and stared, “Yum, look! Two misfits
to eat!” their eyes told us. Surely the whole
posse had come; all shapes and sizes, Cats
on top of cats. Cats still coming over.
Being not eaten, we approached the house.
The cats parted like the red sea, always

watchful for their benefactor. Always.
Eyes everywhere, waiting for their Miss. Fitz.
We were sure that some cat inside the house
had warned of us. Our eyes scanned over
and under for attack from any hole
she could fit through, only seeing more cats.

From what direction would the giant cat
lady come? Perhaps from the ally-way
to the left. No. Too obvious. Over
the roof like a cat, a cat-like Miss. Fitz.
We moved in but still no one came. The whole
house was the same as any other house

except hundreds of cats; a huge cat-house
with cat food, cat bowls, and even a cat
lady. We moved through the threshold, the whole
army behind. We searched the house, always
quiet, until we came upon Miss. Fitz
towering in her old rocker, over

by the house’s fireplace. We looked, always
on our guard, but the cats had eaten Miss. Fitz
whole, just a Fitz-skeleton left-over.

By T.J. Seale
Copyright 2007 Thomas Taylor