Revised Workshop Pieces
By AsphodelBlue - bronze member
Submitted on June 01, 2025
Pendulum
There was once a bird,
Who wanted to fly
In sync with
The morning sun.
It made a nest on a clock,
To wake it every morning
When the world slept
There would be silence.
But the clock sang
Always there,
Maddening
Alone
Wooden footsteps ringing
Metal, silver, ticking
Paint creaking,
Wind crashing
Marionettes dancing
Gears driven endlessly,
Door drifting open.
Quiet but not silent,
The Pendulum, back-and-forth
Always there,
Maddening
Alone.
The bird waited.
Through the darkness,
Eyes unblinking
Lost count.
The bell was silent
It was long gone,
So the bird flew
Against the night.
The night fought back.
Always there,
Maddening,
Boundless.
If anyone believes,
They are still there
Just a bird,
Not a shred of sun
After all, what else
A cupboard,
The darkness,
And a cuckoo clock?
(There used to be italics, so the format is a bit strange rn. Comments: slightly confusing, nice vibe, the ending is not very clear)
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The Day of Our Departure
I watched as the last day of school
Happened and ended
From a fifth-floor window in a dim rehearsal room.
All students who could play music
Deserved to be kidnapped from their dorms
And held in captivity for the graduation ceremony.
But the luckier students are released
No one cared enough about the rain
More than the light-flooded streets,
Then the promise of home and rest.
What we call the sound of rain,
Is a mixture
Between the wind, and something hitting the ground.
What happens in between?
Motion, drifting, gaining speed.
I watched as the last ones approached the gates
Maybe a bit more reluctant than usual
And I wanted to say,
Walk faster. Break is starting.
But I knew they could never hear me.
What would become of the rain?
It’s insulting to call them ‘rain’, since
Each droplet flies by itself.
They could join a river. Become a leaf. Evaporate.
For those before us, silence,
For those growing after us, hope;
We are the clouds and the water, our hope scattered impact,
Our lives belong in the seas, sewers or dark earth
Of the future.
When we’re beyond recognition,
Will you remember us still?
I did not stop to hear their last goodbyes,
Even if the rain recited them for me
Walking away from school
On the day of our departure.
(This also used to contain italics. Comments: too long lol (revised...kinda?))
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The Trophy (Shape Poem)
The Trophy.
You’ve fought for it,
Worked too much for it,
And now you have it.
Just for a moment,
When they take pictures.
Cheering
Praising
Falling
And
you
know
this is
what
you’ve
failed for,
worked not enough for.
You could be somewhere else,
With something far more significant
but you did not seize every chance.
“The past matters, but right now also”
Vows remind you of glorious days
When the Trophy was all you need.
(This used to be a shape poem in the form of a volleyball trophy lol)
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Foundations
No one really thinks about them,
the structure of a wall, something made of concrete or
guilt and quick prayers.
Everywhere the result of wishes,
the buildings and their windows, the hissing of metals becoming solid, constant noise
when designs are ripped to shreds.
Someone stuck in a city, someone observing, observed.
Someone trapped in a forest: listen: the tree roots are crackling like steel cables:
nowhere without foundations.
We are too isolated, the newscaster stated, We are too isolated
and we must change.
Why have we made these buildings? Why must we have walls?
When did we learn to dive down and bury the timber, sand and stone that support
everything we create?
The iron beams distort—the pillars will no longer be silent,
and we ignore the creaking sounds when we fall asleep, to the steady pounding of
the mechanical heart of our city.
(Modeled after “Chainsaws” by Marie Howe, Best American Poetry 2024, p.51) (There used to be italics too)
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The Lake
This was a place to be remembered. Recalled and held close, perhaps settling as a core memory, lingering between the creases of his mind. Not because of how it looked—but true, it was a beautiful thing to behold.
The damp earth was feathery with moss, the odor of decaying leaves thick in the air. Calvin balanced himself on a boulder and turned towards the direction of the sun— or where it would appear soon. The Lake stretched out before him, dark and fraying, a piece of uncut velvet shimmering below no discernable light source. He needed something to wait for, to distract himself from the terrifying possibility that people—actual people he knew—would eventually notice his absence; by then, who would wait for him? Calvin tried to steady his heartbeat, but he knew at once that strange pattern would never go away again. The water seemed so calm and friendly… but he should not have even considered risking it. The unknown depths disgusted him too. He leaned forward and peered into the lead-colored darkness, as far as he could possibly see, before that precious moment passed and he was reminded of his fears again. Blurry trees lining the opposite shore stared back, swaying, whispering condolences he didn’t want to hear. The sky, pressing down from above, was a blotched indigo; streaked with grey and, ominously, a shade of pale slate. There were no stars in this cloudy night. Nothing to witness his confusion. A barn owl called out from the southeast, its cry sharp and lonely.
People tend to believe that at such a bright, energetic age, everyone had some sort of exciting or at least interesting life. Quite the contrary; Calvin still looked forward to a lot and expected nothing from the realistic. He graduated from high school. He successfully graduated from a local college. Then… he promptly ‘settled down’, as they said. Calvin ‘Cello’ Peyton and his little book club, where the only good book is a mystery novel with an absurdly intelligent detective. Calvin the average student, ‘Cello’ the boring librarian. Peyton the nice, abnormally meek guy who wouldn’t know hostility if it wore a nametag and slapped him across the face. They would call him in the late afternoons, inviting him for recurring complaints of their previous friends, sport game bets, or some other trivial matter. It was all in the past, condensed into a singular package that was easy to haul over the edge. His hands still trembled, maybe from the cold, so he curled them into fists. A little green beetle appeared on his shoulder, reflecting metallic light, and Calvin brushed it off. That’s when it happened. As he turned his gaze towards the horizon again, there was a distinct force that caused the boulder to shift; at least that’s what it seemed like. The last clear thing he saw before darkness was a tiny, unassuming layer of moss on the stone where he had been standing.
Then, there was water. Calvin could not open his eyes. The Lake was cold, maybe even freezing compared to the summer night, and that was…unnatural. Within a split second, the following thoughts were internally disproved by a panicked mind, like gasps of air that had a long way to go before reaching the surface. A moment later, the disgust appeared. Who knew what was inside the Lake. Yes, who knew; definitely not him. Maybe just plants and more decaying plants. What if—something else—equally unconcerned, would emerge from the dark, from whatever small container it was cast into? Water currents for motion, algae for a nervous system, shrimps and snails for minds, and pebbles for bones.
Calvin opened his eyes. It didn’t make much of a difference. But then the heavy static that filled every single drop of the Lake was lifted from his ears. Strength, disgust, sheer will. He climbed ashore, hands clawing for a supporting surface, nails cracking in the waterlogged gravel that he was so desperate to avoid a few hours ago, for fear of that crinkling sound. For a moment, Calvin believed that he saw a flash of dull red behind him in the depths, but he didn’t dare look back. Instead, he found the boulder again and returned to his position. The Lake didn’t care for much except the plants and bugs that infested it. There was a kind of peace within that indifference. A century, and all of him would be nothing more than memory and faded files, but the Lake would persist. Blissful rainwater, branching streams, meadows, reeds, dirt. Worlds shall be distant, conversation barely relevant. It will change, but change is not death in nature. For a long time, Calvin Peyton just stood there, unaware of possible glances from passing animals; they could not comprehend anyway. As clouds spun overhead, the wind threaded silver string, and dawn wrapped around him like a shroud, he closed his eyes. Tranquility; one final prayer to the Lake.
(Comments: kinda abrupt topic change (revised))
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Something to Counter Boredom
Leave your room and go outside. Stand in one spot and look around, in all directions, until you find a tree. Walk under the tree, if it is possible. Observe everything about the tree. You should also lie down under the tree to the concerned glances of pedestrians. But first, observe if its bark seems sharp enough to snag clothing. Observe the distance between you and the nearest branch. Observe what falls from the trees, and if their branches rattle as if leaves are about to detach themselves. Now, guess how far up in the air this tree could be seen from today. Guess what the tree thinks of their adjacent trees. Guess the stories the tree might have overheard as people walked past it, their footsteps tapping legible codes to its roots. Record everything noticeable about this life form, preferably not on paper, and seek out another tree until one perfectly fulfills everything on the list.
For instance:
“Includes twenty-six main branches, sticky, serrated round leaves, smooth green-grey bark, a magpie nest, a broken kite, a soda can, discarded cigarettes, red ants, a seven-spotted ladybug, and two inchworms.”
Or:
“Includes forty-nine drooping branches, brown knife-like leaves, a distinctly cold tree hollow, half a brick, three sparrow feathers, a faded note, an orbweaver spider, a round pebble, and many aphids.”
Or:
“Includes eight branches, glossy oval leaves, sharp thorns, a dangling empty cocoon that weighs nothing, brittle seeds, a plastic bag from the market, jute twine, whiteflies, and decaying canary-colored flowers.”
Repeat until you are tired, or until your brain starts to disagree with the weather conditions.
Go back home. Take the list and check if there are anything unusual. Now, try to draw everything on the list for each tree, and include everything—no matter clearly visible in reality or not. If you’d like it, you could draw those sixty-eight aphids you found and name them. Or you could sketch out a strange art piece based on how each part of the tree feels like, with a twisted limestone trunk, black velvet leaves, and fluffy lint for aspen seeds. But you do not have to stop here; now, guess why you are asked to make this list. Guess how exactly you decided to write about the trees you chose. Guess why aspen trees have eyes. Guess when willows started to be planted in cemeteries, and why roses grow taller above skeletons. Guess if you would outlive any of the trees you just saw. Guess how many creatures acknowledge their existence every millisecond. Guess if climbing ivy recognizes the wood that is sculpted into a human likeness. Guess what sparrows see when their wings are pointed in a dive.
Try not to learn anything about the answers; the items on your list will tell you that learning is just gradually burying our unrealistic, dangerous, wonderful, delusional dreams until one finally starts to grow.
You are not obliged to correct yourself today. Take some pride in whatever you have written, because no matter how mundane this recent excerpt of your life was, those trees were probably much more bored than you.
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Comments for the Entire Story
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People from JECW1A might already know who i am by now XD
Comment by AsphodelBlue on June 01, 2025Liked by 0
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