tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3519172897332134082024-03-13T14:16:04.486-06:00Fantastical ObservationsL.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-18386952930466552002010-01-12T11:19:00.000-07:002010-01-12T11:20:30.391-07:00scentThe car beneath me is grumbling about the abuse of a 12 hour drive, and I am of a mind with it. So ready to get out of here. My two brothers and sister are probably the most annoying people on Earth, and by now my dad is so grouchy that everyone is silent for fear that he’ll decide to just turn around and drive back home. It’s happened before. We don’t want another 12 hours, so we stick to glaring and making mean hand signals. I pull out my portable CD player, possibly my most precious possession at 14. I flip through my CD’s, even though I already know what I’m going to pick. Two weeks before, for my birthday, I received a couple of fantastic presents. One was a large tube of Cucumber-Melon lotion, my favorite scent, and I wear it constantly. The second was a CD. The Madding Crowd by Nine Days. Not only am I completely in love with the CD itself, but I am even more in love with the boy who gave it to me. You see, it’s his fault that I nearly failed Algebra this past school year. All the note-passing and back-of-the-head staring. He was, and is still, very distracting. So it goes without saying that this is my favorite CD. I have a feeling I will still love it a decade from now. I plan to spend several hours listening to this, trying to ignore my family. We’re currently rolling through Southern California. We finally see Sea World on our right, and know that we’re close. We all start to get excited and happy, and my dad becomes marginally more cheerful (a very good sign), until our chatter makes him angry again. The rest of the silent ride is filled with our faces pressed to the window. We get to our beautiful beach house rental, and it is just spectacular. We run inside, and explore. After we’d settled in a bit, I peeked into the bathroom, since it wasn’t typically something one would be excited to explore. My eyes grow wide as I see the gorgeous skylight window above the toilet. I stand on the toilet and open the latch, throwing the window wide open. There is a fantastic view of the bay, the lazy sailboats, the smooth sand, and the smell…oh, the smell. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The smell of the bright, sunshiny salt air mingled with my cucumber-melon lotion is the most refreshing scent I’ve ever experienced, and I know that one smell alone will remind me of this trip my entire life.<br /><br />Scent: a) the faculty or sense of smell b) perception by the senses, feeling c) the odor of an animal or man as means of pursuit by a hound; hence a track or trail as indicated by this odor d) distinctive odor. Now applied almost exclusively to agreeable odors, e.g. those of flowers e) an odoriferous liquid prepared by distillation of flowers, etc.; a perfume<br /><br />I’m sitting on the floor playing with a Christmas My Little Pony. She is white with a red mane and tail, and has a candy cane on her bum. Her name is Peppermint. Or Sugar. Or Candy. Or Melanie. I can’t decide. Mommy and Oma are sitting on the couch talking, while daddy is changing Taylor’s diaper. This is Christmas morning, and we’re waiting for daddy and Taylor to come back so we can open presents. Grandpa comes into the room and I run to give him a hug. That is to say, give his knees a hug. He takes my hand and we walk to his favorite recliner chair, the one he sits and watches football in. He lifts me onto his lap. I am very happy, because I love Christmas, and especially Christmas in California, because I love Grandpa’s house and his pretty trees and his waterslide and pool and his goldfish pond and the sunshine. Daddy carries Taylor back into the living room, and everyone gets excited because it’s time to open presents! I open lots of fun toys a 4 year old would like. I open a present that is a mermaid doll. She is so pretty, with beautiful yellow hair and a bright green, glittery tail. And the package says that she changes color in water! Her hair will change to yellow with streaks of pink and her tail turns a beautiful light pink color. I love her! She is from Santa! I get a present from Grandpa. I open it up. It is a Little Mermaid beauty set. I love mermaids! I saw the movie in theaters last year, when I was just three, and now that I am older I still like them a lot! There is a pretty pink comb in the kit, and a mirror, and nail polish, and a bottle of perfume. I stared at the kit for a while, not talking. My parents looked concerned, because I never stop talking and I never stand still and I am doing both. I reverently open the package. I look at the shiny pink mirror, then put it aside. I look at the sparkly nail polish, and vow to make mommy paint my nails later. I look at the pretty pink comb, and run it through my wild hair. It gets stuck. I leave it there. I take out the beautiful perfume bottle. I’ve never had one of those before. I open it up carefully, and put it to my nose. The smell is very light. Mommy says it smells like roses. I think it is my favorite smell in the whole world, and that Ariel MUST wear it too. Mommy shows me how to apply it to my wrists and neck. I feel beautiful. Grandpa beams with joy.<br /><br />Smell: a) the sense of which the nose is the organ; the faculty of smelling b) that property of things which affects the olfactory organ, whether agreeably or otherwise; odor, perfume, aroma, stench, stink (olfactory: an organ of smell, the capacity for smelling) c) a trace, suggestion, or tinge of something, the special, indefinable, or subtle character of the object, event, etc., described<br /><br />I like to sit outside in Autumn. September, October, those are my favorite months. I am outside, sitting on a blanket on the grass, in the shade. My typewriter is next to me, fresh sheet prepared, my dog laying in the sun, soaking up rays of sunshine. The raw, sharp scent of Autumn always makes me feel a mix of joy and melancholy. Joy, because it’s the perfect temperature, and the air is charged, the year is winding down, and there’s always the anticipation of my favorite holiday, Halloween. Melancholy, because Autumn is so short-lived and ephemeral, and I never seem to enjoy it enough before it is already gone with the first winter snowfall. So I am sitting outside, meditating and ruminating on the questions of life. I take a deep, deep, long breath of chill, refreshing air. There is a scent of the cycle of natural life taking its course. Things dying, things hibernating, things winding down. I can smell the decay of leaves, I can see the beautiful colors that you never get any other time of year, and I can feel the world preparing for the onslaught of winter. I never get tired of this scent or this feeling. It is too fleeting.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-84271657609467451902009-12-06T16:28:00.001-07:002009-12-06T16:28:42.582-07:001888As I prowl the nights of London<br />the air is diffuse with<br />heavy despair.<br />The lamps flicker, casting<br />their muted glow on<br />the dirty street.<br />A cacophony of noise<br />reverberates against<br />the windows and boards of<br />dilapidated buildings,<br />nearly shanties.<br />Feline<br />Canine<br />Infant<br />Laughter<br />Anger<br />Clatter<br />Susurrus.<br />White Noise.<br />The vermilion feeling<br />on the brink<br />inside me<br />threatens to spill over onto<br />the broken cobblestones.<br />I need to cleanse<br />this city.<br />My disgust nearly<br />overwhelms me.<br />The papers have it<br />wrong.<br />Justified cleansing of<br />wrongful acts is not<br />‘terrorizing’.<br />Their own<br />guilt<br />is what makes them<br />afraid.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-29372040500543549422009-12-06T16:26:00.000-07:002009-12-06T16:27:59.226-07:00modern death ritualI’ve always had a difficult time with funerals. I have a tendency to cry at the drop of a hat, most especially when other people are crying. Funerals are sad. I, personally, don’t think they should be, and I honestly believe that being desperately sad at a funeral is a little bit selfish. The funeral is held for the family, to express and deal with grief, though often organizing a funeral only worsens the depressing feeling of losing a loved one. It is also held to revere the memory of someone, but who is doing the remembering, and why? Why is someone sad at a funeral? Is it because this person is gone from their lives? It’s a biological certainty that we are all going to die. We, of course, don’t know for certain when or how, but it’s inevitable. The funerals that I’ve gone to have confused me. I understand the general air of grief and loneliness and loss that accompanies such an event, but when family members and friends start sobbing, I start crying too. Not necessarily because I feel sad, but it’s just my general reaction to tears streaming down another’s face. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry at letters from my brother. I’ve even cried at a Hallmark commercial before. Maybe I’m unconsciously extremely emotional, but on the surface it doesn’t register to me. My tears are a Pavlovian reaction.<br /><br />I’ve been to seven funerals in my life – at least that I can distinctly remember. The most recent of these was the funeral for my aunt Cherie. She had just finished a long battle with breast cancer. I remember going to visit her in the hospital. I watched my uncle and my dad, and the utter sorrow evident on their faces. It troubled me to see them so distraught. It was a sad situation, to be sure, and it was difficult for me to see her in that state as well. Her funeral was packed with people I’d never met. It was a nice service, and I tried to keep my sobs quiet, though focusing on that made me miss most of the service itself.<br /><br />I think the strangest thing for me at these funerals, though I believe it occurs at most, was that afterward we all get together at have a big potluck meal in some church cultural hall. It seems an odd change; people are gloomy or hysterical, and then 20 minutes later smiling and laughing and eating a large meal. A very odd dynamic. But I digress.<br /><br />Then there was a funeral for an acquaintance of mine, Dustin. I didn’t know him extremely well, but could see that he was a very kind hearted and caring person, as well as a wonderful musician. I believe he was in his early twenties when he passed away. I only really remember what the weather was like, that it was icy. I know that he died of an overdose, though I can’t recall whether it was drugs or alcohol, but I do know he had struggled with his problem for a long time. I didn’t think any less of him for it. His family members were surprisingly gracious and seemed at peace, like they had come to a blessed understanding of Dustin’s afterlife. I felt it was a more appropriate feeling for a funeral, to be happy that someone had lived their lives, and their time on Earth was remembered with love and warmth, rather than getting stuck in the cliché of sorrow and grief.<br /><br />The funeral for one of the co-owners of the theatre that I’ve worked at for the past nine years was interesting. Anything involving actors usually is; they ‘seem’ to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and perhaps some of them do, but I remember the reactions were more melodramatic than usual. She was a wonderful, strong, kind, amazing woman, who had succumbed to cancer, but had made peace with it and was able to spend a good amount of time with her loving family. The line for her viewing was out the door, and even the LDS prophet (though not at the time) came to pay respects. It was sad, but I mostly went out of a feeling of obligation and a desire to see many of the friends I only see once in a great while.<br /><br />I had the opportunity to know both my Great-Grandmother and my Great-Grandfather. They were lovely, interesting people. I was asked to sing at both of their funerals, which was nice, but difficult for me, since everyone was already crying and I had to face the entire audience and sing a somber, sorrowful melody while keeping my composure so it sounded nice and didn’t mar the memory of their lives. I think my Great-Grandfather’s funeral was more memorable for me, because he was afforded military honors from being a veteran of World War II (he was flying into Pearl Harbor in an unarmed photography plane when it was attacked). But I was at peace with their passing. They both had lived wonderful lives and left a plethora of offspring which I can call my extended family.<br /><br />The summer after my Junior year of High School, I received a call from a classmate. She informed me that one of our fellow students had died. I was told that he passed away while attempting to get a high by choking himself and then releasing it before he passed out. He had a seizure, and essentially was hung by his own tool of pleasure. A horrible, horrible fate, and extremely sad and unfortunate. I was also told that myself and the other 11 girls that were in the Madrigal Choir for the next year would be performing a song at the funeral. I don’t think I would have gone otherwise. It was very odd for me to be at a funeral for a 17 year old that I had just seen a few weeks before. It was also my first time seeing a dead body, and to be honest, it was a surreal experience for me. It looked like him, but didn’t. I had a subtle tingling expectation that he would sit up, look around, get out of the coffin and leave.<br /><br />The first funeral I ever went to, that I can recall, was my Grandfather’s. He was special to me, and still is. He died when I was six years old. My mother received a phone call from her sister, and immediately flew out to California to be with my Grandfather. I remember feeling anxious for my mother, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I was worried that everyone was so distressed. I like people to be happy (which is most likely a big reason why funerals bother me). He passed away sometime that night or morning, and the next day my father, little brother, baby sister and myself began the drive to California. We came to his funeral, and I barely remember it, except that it was vividly green and gray and sunshiny, and my mother and aunts sang tearfully under a white shade tent, while I wriggled uncomfortably on a hard folding chair, unsure of what was going on.<br /><br />So there are my experiences so far with modern civilization’s death ritual, the funeral. Full of mournful hymns, potluck food, tears, flowers (OH, the flowers! So many.) impartial dead people, and confused relatives and friends, nearly all sad and in the smallest way a little bit selfish, because they don’t have that person anymore in their lives. Life goes on, ends for some, continues for others, on and on and will always continue that way until the end of the world, whether it be an implosion, explosion, fiery cleansing of sinful souls, mass alien attack and domination, widespread plague, global warming, or any other number of things.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-19717049406383020282009-11-21T18:50:00.003-07:002009-11-21T18:57:40.108-07:00consciousness slowedThe anticipation is tangible. The crisp, autumn air creeps in through spaces in the door and windows. She stands in her room, shivering, naked. The wretched pile of tulle and satin sits on her bed, mocking her lack of royal blood. She can only pretend. She feels bitter. Her mother's voice wafts upstairs, asking if her dress is on. She grudgingly puts one foot through the mounds of fabric, then the other. An arm goes through a gaping lavender hole. Then another. Her bare back shakes with cold. A knock at her door. Her mother enters, armed with paint, brushes, powders, and other suffocating devices. Her mother clicks her tongue and zips up the open back of the dress. She sits, while her mother arranges the ingredients for disguise. A sponge piled with tan goo comes toward her face. She closes her eyes, cringing inwardly, gulping down a whimper.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-81558388742133468102009-11-21T18:41:00.004-07:002009-11-29T15:55:05.274-07:00the closetI unlock the olive green door and even more paint chips fall off as it moves. I got this rusty key by giving the greasy landlord 20 bucks. The apartment is musty and dank. It's difficult to see in here. I shine the dull beam of the flashlight ahead of me, catching the dust motes my passage has tossed into the air. I make my way to the filing cabinet I glimpsed the other night at the party he held. There is just something so...off putting about him. Why can't anyone else see it? The filing cabinet is there, in the bedroom. I creep over the rancid carpet till I'm finally there. I open the third drawer down, on a hunch, and beneath a sheaf of invoices lies the box. The box I am SURE holds the truth about him. I hear a key scraping in the lock. My heart beats like an African war chant. Closing the drawer as soundlessly as possible (which isn't much), I race to the gaping mouth of the closet. The mildewy darkness engulfs me as I shut the door. ....L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-67102355125658668272009-09-28T21:36:00.002-06:002009-09-28T21:38:41.310-06:00secretcomplex, ugly pyramid<br />this template of<br />aesthetic lies<br />I'm in love, a<br />recipe for wrong<br /><br />hard to remember the<br />navy blue marriage<br />less control<br />everyday lives<br />a rigid tempo<br />of boredom<br /><br />type type powerpoint<br />stolen glances<br />visualizations<br />torrents of pink/yellow seizures<br />sight = fire thrives<br />electric guitars & bagpipes<br />type type powerpoint<br /><br />then home<br />clearly, legibly<br />dullL.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-44861546147249448582009-09-21T18:19:00.002-06:002009-09-21T18:24:12.490-06:00shakespeare's intelligencemandatory, cordially awkward character<br />chopping, broken, heavily primitive<br /><br />isolated skeletons pose in cupboards<br /><br />sheepish gondoliers fight humanity<br /><br />exaggerated actress caught on film - shock<br /><br />absent, deluded frogs babble on boats<br /><br />tetchy santa claus' cookies = puffing buttons<br /><br />dramatic, jealous lover's poisoned consolation<br /><br />queen beauty, mistaken fertility is treacherous<br /><br />battles, accidents, division, slaughter - paradise?<br /><br />knuckles grate against emo foreheads, teeth<br /><br />a strong, drastic melody becomes fiercer in the vicinity<br /><br />ceiling secretion - red; a lantern gourd<br /><br />excellent fire rages, racing across the sky<br /><br />unspoken riddle, mysterious world<br /><br />key - rabbits<br /><br />bueno.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-56202907699744554442009-09-21T18:10:00.003-06:002009-09-21T18:16:43.723-06:00monsoon seasonthe water is jumping off the sidewalk<br />the air is white with spray<br />from the drops forcing their way<br />to Earth<br />in sheets<br />the gutters are choking<br />trying to deal with<br />the excess of water<br />they weren't built for this sort of thing<br /><br />spears of lightning crack the sky<br />into pieces<br />thunder resonates around the city<br />scaring every animal<br />and small child<br />how could something be so<br />loud<br />the very air seems heavy<br />and swirling dark clouds<br />loom<br /><br />across the street the wind<br />carries cardboard boxes<br />around a white trash neighbor's lawn<br />though they get heavier with<br />each new bit of<br />torrential rain<br /><br />lightning crosses the sky again<br />the puddles reflect it<br />distorted by ripples<br />shingles<br />roses<br />wind chimes<br />basketball hoops<br /><br />drip<br /><br />this is monsoon season in suburbiaL.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-4603046368978760852009-09-08T10:00:00.008-06:002010-01-12T11:18:27.056-07:00windham terrace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c246/muddledlunacy/arbus_masked_woman_in_wheelchair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 261px;" src="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c246/muddledlunacy/arbus_masked_woman_in_wheelchair.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Children are a joy; I’ve always<br />Loved their unabashed smiles,<br />Enthusiasm for life.<br />Honest, inquisitive, sprightly,<br />Refreshing.<br />Destiny never gave me<br />A child<br />Nor a wife.<br />Instead she gave me eyes<br />And the knowledge; wisdom<br />Only loneliness can bestow.<br /><br />I sit here with useless, arthritic legs;<br />Sit here in this chair, this<br />Mobile substitute.<br />The leaves fall, the corridors<br />Hum with anticipation of visitors.<br />For others.<br />The first holiday comes.<br />Our 'home' will be visited<br />By a group of small children<br />Dressed as vampires, princesses,<br />And the occasional astronaut.<br /><br />I hold my butterscotch candies anxiously<br />In my lap, mangled legs covered.<br />My own costume, a witch mask<br />With grassy hair<br />Sunken eyes<br />And a vicious, gap-toothed leer,<br />Wasn't my choice<br />Though, seems a fitting commentary.<br />I sit in dappled sunlight, crisp air<br />With the others,<br />butterflies pummeling my stomach.<br />The children never come. <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" ><b> </b></span>L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-27766814484503506712009-08-30T13:36:00.003-06:002009-08-30T13:46:09.193-06:00hungerHe stands stark, in the corner, presence often ignored, unwanted, yet always there. An evil, bony grin lingers on his face, pressing on the olive air. His emaciated form echoes that of those he afflicts. Smudged with dirt, ragged clothing hangs in tatters off his body, but he doesn't mind. In the duty assigned to him, he excels, is well-fed in that way. He is present in endless homes, slowly leeching the life and will out of otherwise strong souls. He is happy with his results, but in the back of his mind there is a hollow space filled with doubt and regret.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-59065607138752657862009-07-29T23:18:00.003-06:002009-07-29T23:24:18.186-06:00early summerThe air crackles in anticipation of the coming storm. Birds fly frantically, leaves shake violently, the sun consents to be hidden, all in preparation of the beautiful, awesome event about to take place. The last vestiges of blue are erased, as the sky flashes with light, and a distant, yet ever-present booming is heard in the distance. The very atmosphere is suffused with potential. This is truly the most magical time of all. Anything could happen and still seem plausible, when taken away from sunlight's harsh realities.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-38545203245953866882008-12-10T14:15:00.005-07:002009-08-30T13:45:50.044-06:00sheSo she’ll write about it. The things she’ll never see, the places she’ll never get to go, the things she’ll never achieve, the dreams she’ll never get to fulfill, the people she’ll never get to meet. It’s all in her head, waiting to be passed on to the next dreamer, while all the other folk of the world get to experience the things she can only imagine. Life is too confusing, too disturbing and riddled with mire for her to partake in. She can see all the things she wants, but knows she will never amount to anything because she wants too much. So she’ll write about it. To get it out of her head. To have done something. To be able to tell herself that she has lived, albeit vicariously through her carefully crafted words.<br /><br />She knows her stories, her worlds, don’t exist. But the world is too scary, too real to be lived in, the only way to stay alive is to replace the broken things with idealistic things, things that can be explained or, at the very least, be magical instead of empty and hopeless. The stories ignite a fire in her, and are the only thing through which she has ever received solace. The blank page screams to be given a structured world where the character knows their own mind, is sure of their feelings, is tested through conflict and struggle, and always has the courage and good heart required for the happy ending. Black and white. Structure. Resolution. Clarity. The words and ideas and stories and hopes have been bottled up for so long, it is difficult to get them out. Difficult to write through the haze of forgetfulness. The racing thoughts don’t leave until they are expressed on the screen, or to the as-yet-unknown person that actually wants to listen.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-91656183323695886952007-12-03T11:25:00.003-07:002010-01-12T11:22:13.282-07:00romanceWhere are the Darcys and Rochesters of this world?<br />Unrealistic dreams of what romance should be, could be,<br />Are thrust upon us by countless movies, books, and songs.<br />Unrelenting, they give us a rosy-hued view of what we want,<br />But what is never likely to be for many, if not all of us.<br /><br />These perfect male figures reside only in fantasy,<br />An unattainable dream for women to sigh about,<br />Only to realize in hopeless moments of reality,<br />That their poetical idea of perfect romance<br />Is likely to fall short in the real world.<br /><br />What is stopping those dreams from becoming reality?<br />There has to be someone these characters are based upon.<br />Can they really only be fiction; a flawless projection<br />Of what some broken female author thought her life, love<br />Could, or should be in another, fantastical world?<br /><br />Women waste their lives, throwing away chances<br />To be happy, not wanting to ‘settle’, in case that Percy Blakeney<br />Suddenly pops into her life, willing to whisk her away into<br />A world where all the ideas she’s had shoved upon her<br />Might actually be possible.<br /><br />Maybe some women find these ‘flawless’ men.<br />Even if they do, is it really fair for expectations to be so high?<br />I have seen many good men just give up because they couldn’t<br />Be all that women seem to expect of them. Why can’t it be enough<br />For them to have a man that will care and provide?<br /><br />We all want the airport scenes, the professions of undying love,<br />But maybe we need to take down our image of what makes<br />That perfect romantic lead in our lives, and see that it’s the very<br />Small, simple things; tiny moments in an average day,<br />That are the exquisite examples of actual true love.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-40412144848516769942007-11-30T10:19:00.001-07:002009-08-30T13:46:33.596-06:00aimlessAimless wandering.<br />The same day, played out<br />Over and over again<br />With people and conversations<br />Changing, but the daily<br />Schedule never something new.<br /><br />Where is the<br />Excitement, the joy<br />Life is supposed to bring?<br />Why is it that the things<br />You are supposed to do are<br />Only dull and meaningless?<br /><br />If you touched upon the<br />Forbidden things,<br />Life could be<br />So much more wild,<br />Unrestricted.<br />As well as painful and damaging.<br /><br />So you can try for patience,<br />Half-heartedly hoping<br />For that knight in<br />Shining armor to ride in and make<br />Your life euphoric and<br />Worthwhile.<br /><br />But in the end, if he comes,<br />It would be exciting for a<br />Time, but slowly the monotony<br />Would peek out at you again<br />And engulf your so-called life,<br />Leaving only a husk in view.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-15819327849895418352007-10-03T22:56:00.002-06:002009-08-30T13:46:44.685-06:00winterOne scene as I watch the raging snowstorm –<br /><br /><p>A man walks through an endless sheet of white misery.<br />Thin sweater, worn shoes, empty pockets.<br />Tears of tragedy cling to his cheeks<br />As he searches for a hot meal, a warm bed, a kind heart. </p><p><br />I sip my cocoa.</p>L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-14453190969113596032007-10-03T22:54:00.001-06:002009-08-30T13:46:58.188-06:00youHow is it you understand<br />Me the way you do?<br />It’s like you know<br />Every inch of my heart<br />Every thought in my mind.<br />Yet you remain ignorant<br />Of how I feel about you.<br /><br />Are you really unaware?<br />Do you know about the tingle<br />I experience<br />Every time I see you<br />Or think of you?<br />You are my world.<br /><br />Maybe you are aware of this.<br />If so, stop the fallacy.<br />Help me understand<br />You as well<br />I need to<br />I want to<br />I love you.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-12626775811781706502007-10-03T20:46:00.005-06:002009-08-30T13:47:25.473-06:00ode to roller coastersYou cause chills, thrills, spills<br />Looping around, upside down.<br />Nausea, joy, money are<br />What you bring.<br />You receive no appreciation<br />For all the work you do<br />Lugging heavy cartloads of<br />People up hill, pushing down,<br />All on a hot, summer day.<br />Repeating this process every<br />Day, week, year<br />Yet you continue tirelessly<br />Up, down, around, through.<br />All the drinks spilled, vomit<br />Thrown and sweat dripped<br />Is patiently endured.<br />When will you get your reward?L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-19632809604806242952007-10-03T20:46:00.004-06:002009-08-30T13:47:08.623-06:00rogerRoger trudged home from the lake in a dreadful mood. He was muddy, soaked, drenched, sopping, unclean, saturated, itchy, awash, filthy, waterlogged, and every other kind of wet and dirty you can possibly think of. He had spent the day IN the lake instead of on it, as he had planned. But who could have planned for that surprise rainstorm, and those mean bullies, and those awful horseflies that loved his sweet skin? In his hands he held his broken fishing pole and his empty tackle box; his small boat was in pieces back at the lakeshore. But he told himself that any strong seven-year-old boy, such as himself, would not cry. Oh, no, he would not cry. He was better than that. So, with tears welling in his eyes, but not falling down his cheeks, he walked in the back door and called to his Mommy.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-12148719795929318342007-10-03T20:45:00.004-06:002009-08-30T13:47:49.854-06:00silentlySilently.<br />As the moonlight falls<br />On the shadow of what was once a dream.<br />She awakes,<br />Distraught.<br />Everything is wrong.<br />There is nothing left<br />For her.<br />Someone must save her.<br />But who?<br />The wave of tears arrives<br />Drowning her in sorrow<br />When will the dawn come?<br />Not soon enough.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-15497006399845401452007-10-03T20:45:00.003-06:002009-08-30T13:47:34.878-06:00choiceShe pulled down the shade as his car pulled away from her house. It had been so hard to let him go. At first, he would not leave, said he would rather die than abandon her. She knew that he wanted this chance so badly, and losing him was the consequence of the choice she had to make. And she had made it. That was final. She understood how important this opportunity was to him, it was the experience of a lifetime and she had to put away her own selfish feelings and live with the small glimmer of hope she had that she would see him again. If only she could.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-90550279231656783242007-10-03T20:44:00.001-06:002009-08-30T13:48:00.270-06:00sorchaShe labors so diligently,<br />Never speaking, always working.<br />So much pain, behind, ahead.<br />Too many obstacles.<br />She wants so much to give up,<br />But knows she must never.<br />Without her suffering, they’d be gone,<br /><br />Forever<br /><br />Her task is ever ominous;<br />Yet He comes along.<br />He, who’s kind has inspired hate in hers for so long.<br />He, who she should despise,<br />But, try as she might, cannot.<br /><br />Their fates are intertwined,<br />And the trials they endure,<br />Will bring peace to all, with<br /><br />TimeL.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-52736759490872228642007-10-03T20:43:00.004-06:002009-08-30T13:48:10.361-06:00swing-setI am shiny and new.<br />Made for young children and the young at heart.<br />I proudly uphold my appendages<br />As they oscillate back and forth,<br />Back and forth,<br />And the air fills with peals of joyful laughter.<br />I am loved.<br /><br />But children do grow older,<br />And I am not looked to<br />As a source of enjoyment any longer.<br />Time passes and my once luminous<br />Chains are flaked with rust<br />Never to be used again, I am disassembled,<br />And taken to the graveyard<br />Of forgotten thrills and discarded dreams.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-14135952126785343692007-10-03T20:42:00.001-06:002009-08-30T13:48:40.682-06:00the bluesWhen you’re busy beyond belief,<br />Or you have too much to do,<br />And you’re overworked and tired,<br />You’ve got the blues.<br /><br />When boys don’t seem to like you,<br />Or you can’t find the right words,<br />And your confidence is waning,<br />You’ve got the blues.<br /><br />When the day in cold and dreary,<br />Or you can’t go out and play,<br />And you sulk in your small corner<br />You’ve got the blues.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-22567167974307739422007-10-03T20:40:00.004-06:002009-08-30T13:49:11.197-06:00the futureThe fear of what my future holds<br />Consumes me.<br />I prepare assiduously, but blindly.<br />It is so hard, not knowing.<br />I know what is expected.<br />But will I live up to it?<br />Once, I tried living day to day.<br />Now I live in the<br /><br />Future.<br /><br />What must I do to prepare for<br />Tomorrow?<br />Next Week?<br />Month?<br />Year?<br /><br />I pray for the strength to see<br />All that I must do.<br />But once I receive the answer<br />It overwhelms me.<br />Too much to comprehend,<br />Yet I have no choice.<br />They depend on me;<br />All of them.<br />I will not let them down,<br />Whatever the price.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351917289733213408.post-21389776647114642692007-10-03T20:40:00.003-06:002009-08-30T13:48:54.818-06:00the boysGet away from us<br />They say<br />Four-eyes, chicken legs<br />Their words<br />So insulting<br />Such a strong boy<br />He turns away,<br />Not listening.<br />Then he goes home<br />And cries.<br /><br />Years later<br />In High School<br />They are in sports,<br />Popular<br />He is in Calculus,<br />Chemistry<br />The names they call<br />Him hurt more now<br />But he will not show them<br />He will be brave.<br /><br />After college<br />We see where our hero stands<br />Higher than them all<br />Laughing at those men<br />They were only<br />Lonely bachelors<br />He had wife and child<br />And was leading, CEO<br />Of a most prestigious<br />Company. How comical.L.K. McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10539883428091551407noreply@blogger.com0