BIMA is to SUMMER CAMP what this BLOG is to SAPPY LOVE NOTES PASSED BETWEEN CLASS
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Call to Arms
I hereby swear by whatever gods of literature there may be that if all BIMA 2008 writers do not post at least one thing by midnight, January 31st, I will myself will delete every post that I myself added to this blog. So I plead with all BIMA 2008 writers, with Ethan, and with Jon: PLEASE POST SOMETHING SOON!
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
I know that I am whistling in the dark when I ask all 2008 BIMA writers to write or comment at least once before the New Year. If you do not, I will: personally hunt down every single one of you and methodically disembowl you, starting from the feet and working my way up; throw your remains to the whale that ate Jonah; and then, after God stones me to death, I will overhear the angels saying, "Hmm...I wonder what would have happenned to the BIMA 2008 writers if they had posted regularly and if Abbie had not been a hypocrite about the matter."
In the Wind
I feel the stars weeping salty tears from the heavens.
I feel the the wind blowing dust in my eyes.
Blinded and torn and lamenting my family
My lover now gone, my soul is reborn.
Heavenly light from the skies is darkened and dimmed.
The stone cities crumble beneath the dark waves.
Haunted and bleeding, the phoenix flies south again.
Can my soul not do the soul as that bird?
I grieve as I wander through forest so black and cold,
Through trees long since burnt, but again they did rise,
And yet the proud mortals cut them down in shame again.
Fall on your swords, fly your banners and cry!
My cloak of mourning now billows in a sudden breeze,
Nay not a breeze, but the wind from the fire,
A fire now absent, only in the wind remains
A force strong enough to toss me about.
I push back against the wind, weak mortal that am.
Fall I in the dust, never again to rise.
Do not find the wind; let it fill you with laughter
The laughter you sing just before you die.
I lie here in wait for the approach of Death.
He does not come yet, and I make for to rise.
But there in the distance, his black cloak soaring so high,
I see him, and I lay my head down to die.
I feel the the wind blowing dust in my eyes.
Blinded and torn and lamenting my family
My lover now gone, my soul is reborn.
Heavenly light from the skies is darkened and dimmed.
The stone cities crumble beneath the dark waves.
Haunted and bleeding, the phoenix flies south again.
Can my soul not do the soul as that bird?
I grieve as I wander through forest so black and cold,
Through trees long since burnt, but again they did rise,
And yet the proud mortals cut them down in shame again.
Fall on your swords, fly your banners and cry!
My cloak of mourning now billows in a sudden breeze,
Nay not a breeze, but the wind from the fire,
A fire now absent, only in the wind remains
A force strong enough to toss me about.
I push back against the wind, weak mortal that am.
Fall I in the dust, never again to rise.
Do not find the wind; let it fill you with laughter
The laughter you sing just before you die.
I lie here in wait for the approach of Death.
He does not come yet, and I make for to rise.
But there in the distance, his black cloak soaring so high,
I see him, and I lay my head down to die.