Imagery Poem

Well, I honestly can't remember whether this person wished to remain anonymous or not, but I do know that I have permission to publish, and the poem is impressive, so if she wishes to be identified, check back tomorrow for the poet's name. I love the metaphors in this poem -- see how many you can find!

Raw Riding

I sit aloft the saddle
The pound of her strong limbs below me
Beating the ground with powerful strides.
I'm the Lone Ranger,
One hand guiding her on the battered path,
Riding high on her neck,
Urging her forth,
The other dangling loosely at my side.
My feet in the stirrups
Tap her bulging barrel,
And she lunges ahead at a blinding pace.
My back's a board as I lean forward,
Her mane lashing my face.
Sheer speed blurs my vision,
My hair chasing behind me.
The only thing I can smell is the raw air,
The only thing I can see is the finish,
Beckoning me closer,
To win.

Returning At Last

Well, we're back for another year with a whole new crop of writers to showcase. I thought I'd begin the year with this post, which my Advanced English class wrote collaboratively (and yes, that is a vocab word!) Our goal was to "explode a moment," bringing it to life in full color, clarity, and a hint of slow motion. Enjoy!

The salty smell tempts me. As I raise it closer and closer to my mouth, another idea comes to mind. I glare across the cafeteria at my nemesis, Ryan . The memory of my face covered in ketchup burns in my mind, and suddenly I realize, I have to do it. I wind up my arm like Cliff Lee in the big game. The greasy heat of the fry between my fingers urges me on. My arm launches through the air in a dramatic arc. I release the weapon. It sails through the air, zinging like a stealth bomber, tumbling like an acrobat, and finally unleashing its greasy load right between his eyes.

Disclaimer: Scribbles and Bits in no way advocates throwing food in the cafeteria.