Poem 1
Dear Swimming,
From when you gave me lessons,
To when I joined your first team for me.
From the easiest sets,
To the hardest ones of all.
You have always been a part of myself.
I am not myself without you and what you have given me.
Yes, I still hate:
Diving into that icy-cold water,
Never-ending main sets,
Lots and lots of butterfly,
And those terrible nerves I get before meets.
But I will always love:
Long, smooth 200 freestyles,
Kick,
That feeling I get when I have just touched the wall, looked up at the clock, and am smiling about my time,
Saying “Good Job!” to the people in lanes next to me,
The feeling I get after practice,
Cooling down,
And my swimming friends.
I won’t lie,
I don’t always love you while I’m swimming,
But at the end of the day,
I love you.
I can’t imagine not being a swimmer.
See you at practice tonight!
-Jorie
Dear Swimming,
From when you gave me lessons,
To when I joined your first team for me.
From the easiest sets,
To the hardest ones of all.
You have always been a part of myself.
I am not myself without you and what you have given me.
Yes, I still hate:
Diving into that icy-cold water,
Never-ending main sets,
Lots and lots of butterfly,
And those terrible nerves I get before meets.
But I will always love:
Long, smooth 200 freestyles,
Kick,
That feeling I get when I have just touched the wall, looked up at the clock, and am smiling about my time,
Saying “Good Job!” to the people in lanes next to me,
The feeling I get after practice,
Cooling down,
And my swimming friends.
I won’t lie,
I don’t always love you while I’m swimming,
But at the end of the day,
I love you.
I can’t imagine not being a swimmer.
See you at practice tonight!
-Jorie
Poem 2
The Long Journey
The forest stretches for miles to the right.
To the left you can see a foamy, running stream,
slowly shaping and curving the surrounding rock.
If turn your head straight up to the sky,
you are viewing the clearest shade of blue.
Look down,
your feet are steadily moving across the hard-packed dirt path,
worn and steady from each person
who traveled this trail.
Keep walking along,
you will reach your destination in time.
The boulder to your right
is a sign you are almost there.
The mountains to your left
are coming into view.
Don’t rush,
Instead savor each moment.
Take a deep breath,
the air is thinning,
the stream has nearly disappeared,
the trees are less in numbers,
and the dirt reveals less and less footprints.
You have been hiking for what felt like hours,
but finally,
here you are,
at the top.
Congratulations!
You have just hiked a mountain.
The Long Journey
The forest stretches for miles to the right.
To the left you can see a foamy, running stream,
slowly shaping and curving the surrounding rock.
If turn your head straight up to the sky,
you are viewing the clearest shade of blue.
Look down,
your feet are steadily moving across the hard-packed dirt path,
worn and steady from each person
who traveled this trail.
Keep walking along,
you will reach your destination in time.
The boulder to your right
is a sign you are almost there.
The mountains to your left
are coming into view.
Don’t rush,
Instead savor each moment.
Take a deep breath,
the air is thinning,
the stream has nearly disappeared,
the trees are less in numbers,
and the dirt reveals less and less footprints.
You have been hiking for what felt like hours,
but finally,
here you are,
at the top.
Congratulations!
You have just hiked a mountain.
Vignette Story
My Favorite Place
Driving across the scenic roads, the only thing I see in front of me is the lake, shimmering and glistening in the summer sun. It is the center of this place, everything and everyone comes back to the lake. We take a right turn as the excitement builds in the car. A sign passes by, welcoming us into my favorite campgrounds. I roll down the window and stick my head out. The wind plays games with my hair, tossing it in every direction. Outside, an older boy calls out to a kid on his bike. Two little girls walk along the grass, both holding brown paper bags filled to the brim with candy. I can barely contain my excitement. The car, tired from the long journey, is parked in the lot. My brother and I rush to greet our many cousins. They have already gone swimming, bought candy, and been down at the beach. We walk back to our cottage, chatting about our plans for the week. A slow smile spreads across my face. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it smells like summer. There is no other place that I would rather be.
My Favorite Place
Driving across the scenic roads, the only thing I see in front of me is the lake, shimmering and glistening in the summer sun. It is the center of this place, everything and everyone comes back to the lake. We take a right turn as the excitement builds in the car. A sign passes by, welcoming us into my favorite campgrounds. I roll down the window and stick my head out. The wind plays games with my hair, tossing it in every direction. Outside, an older boy calls out to a kid on his bike. Two little girls walk along the grass, both holding brown paper bags filled to the brim with candy. I can barely contain my excitement. The car, tired from the long journey, is parked in the lot. My brother and I rush to greet our many cousins. They have already gone swimming, bought candy, and been down at the beach. We walk back to our cottage, chatting about our plans for the week. A slow smile spreads across my face. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and it smells like summer. There is no other place that I would rather be.
Moth Story
I loved preschool. I remember the paint days where I would put on a big, paint-splattered t-shirt and paint with the red, blue, and yellow paints. I would swirl the fat brush around the paper and dot big blobs all over. I always thought I had just made a masterpiece. Once, we each had a circle piece of paper and paint in squeeze bottles. Our teacher put each paper on a spinner, and we dropped paint all over the spinning surface, the colors creating circle patterns and designs all over the paper.
I remember playtime, which consists of tea sets, dollhouses, and stuffed animals in my mind. There was a certain dollhouse that was shaped like a firehouse that sticks. The wooden firehouse had 3 floors, and a little elevator, which had a string pulley and a wooden block that could be moved up and down.
In my preschool, there was a certain place that was one of the best spots to play in—the loft. I remember there was a wall covered in gray-ish carpet-like material. That material also made up this loft. The loft had stairs on the side that led up to a small enclosed space, with a window (I think) on one of the walls of the loft. This cozy spot was one of the most popular places to be. So you’d assume that everyone would want to play there at the same time, right?
One day, I was playing up in the loft with a few other girls. We were having a good time, probably playing with baby dolls or something like that. But things must have gotten rough, maybe we were fighting over the dolls or something, because one of the girls shoved me out of the loft, hard. I was standing right by the stairs, and went flying down and landed where the toys were. Of course, I didn’t land on a soft beanbag or even a plastic table. I landed on the edged wooden firehouse. The momentum I had from the fall made me hit the firehouse, and the wooden edge cut my skin open right next to my right eye. All I can remember from this fall was being on the ground and looking at the firehouse in front of me. I can also remember red on the wooden surface, red marks that weren’t there before.
Looking back on this moment, I feel like it never happened. I can remember the time, the place, the people and things involved, but not the pain. When people ask me about how I got stitches, they usually ask me if it hurt, or what happened. I find it so weird that I can vividly remember lying on the ground in front of the dollhouse, and even seeing my mom show up from her job at the hospital, but I cannot remember what it felt to fall down the stairs, or what it felt like to get stitches.
What I do remember is my mom coming to bring me to her work (it was close by because I went to the preschool near the hospital). I can still see her standing in the doorway of the preschool, wearing her white coat and talking to my teachers. I was then driven to the hospital where I was given peanut-butter crackers.
There were lots of tall doctors who helped me and fixed me up. They had funny glasses and took my crackers away from me, which made me very upset. I was lying on a bed, but I forget what happened after that. My mom said I screamed and cried the whole time. I bet I did.
This whole experience led up to the little scar next to my right eye, but I think it has more effect. It makes me think of preschool of a time when I got hurt, rather than a time when I splattered paint over a spinning wheel. It makes me think of how strange my memories are. It makes me think of how glad I am that the firehouse hit slightly to the right of my eye. I don’t think I’ve ever realized what would have happened otherwise until now.
I loved preschool. I remember the paint days where I would put on a big, paint-splattered t-shirt and paint with the red, blue, and yellow paints. I would swirl the fat brush around the paper and dot big blobs all over. I always thought I had just made a masterpiece. Once, we each had a circle piece of paper and paint in squeeze bottles. Our teacher put each paper on a spinner, and we dropped paint all over the spinning surface, the colors creating circle patterns and designs all over the paper.
I remember playtime, which consists of tea sets, dollhouses, and stuffed animals in my mind. There was a certain dollhouse that was shaped like a firehouse that sticks. The wooden firehouse had 3 floors, and a little elevator, which had a string pulley and a wooden block that could be moved up and down.
In my preschool, there was a certain place that was one of the best spots to play in—the loft. I remember there was a wall covered in gray-ish carpet-like material. That material also made up this loft. The loft had stairs on the side that led up to a small enclosed space, with a window (I think) on one of the walls of the loft. This cozy spot was one of the most popular places to be. So you’d assume that everyone would want to play there at the same time, right?
One day, I was playing up in the loft with a few other girls. We were having a good time, probably playing with baby dolls or something like that. But things must have gotten rough, maybe we were fighting over the dolls or something, because one of the girls shoved me out of the loft, hard. I was standing right by the stairs, and went flying down and landed where the toys were. Of course, I didn’t land on a soft beanbag or even a plastic table. I landed on the edged wooden firehouse. The momentum I had from the fall made me hit the firehouse, and the wooden edge cut my skin open right next to my right eye. All I can remember from this fall was being on the ground and looking at the firehouse in front of me. I can also remember red on the wooden surface, red marks that weren’t there before.
Looking back on this moment, I feel like it never happened. I can remember the time, the place, the people and things involved, but not the pain. When people ask me about how I got stitches, they usually ask me if it hurt, or what happened. I find it so weird that I can vividly remember lying on the ground in front of the dollhouse, and even seeing my mom show up from her job at the hospital, but I cannot remember what it felt to fall down the stairs, or what it felt like to get stitches.
What I do remember is my mom coming to bring me to her work (it was close by because I went to the preschool near the hospital). I can still see her standing in the doorway of the preschool, wearing her white coat and talking to my teachers. I was then driven to the hospital where I was given peanut-butter crackers.
There were lots of tall doctors who helped me and fixed me up. They had funny glasses and took my crackers away from me, which made me very upset. I was lying on a bed, but I forget what happened after that. My mom said I screamed and cried the whole time. I bet I did.
This whole experience led up to the little scar next to my right eye, but I think it has more effect. It makes me think of preschool of a time when I got hurt, rather than a time when I splattered paint over a spinning wheel. It makes me think of how strange my memories are. It makes me think of how glad I am that the firehouse hit slightly to the right of my eye. I don’t think I’ve ever realized what would have happened otherwise until now.