Monthly Archives: March 2013

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #9


Sonnet #9

When I was six and ten some years ago

My brother lept into his muddy tomb

My mother died upon the rocks below

And father followed after to his mortal doom.

I was the orphan without personage

The daughter veiled from bows and frilly lace

The girl who climbed along the mountain’s ridge

And owned a small and sooty little face.

You see the watchman’s daughter, dark and cloaked

Concealed before she makes her last reprieve

To trade our lives and never be revoked

Would be a gift quite wondrous to receive:

The girl wakes up beside the mountains high

And I, beside her love, a’sleeping  lie.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry



Golden Star Poetry and Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden’s “the floating Duchess of Biggleswade”, footnotes by Golden Star Poetry


The Floating Duchess of Biggleswade, by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden (and Golden Star Poetry)

It was snowing outside, and Laura was only half awake. or half asleep- but she was  an optimist, and always was one, so to her she was  nearly half-awake, and not the other way around. Once she regained consciousness, she groped for the lamp shade to turn it on, but only swished at the air where she so often felt something.  But how?  “where is the lamp?” she asked out loud. ” It’s…” she struggled for the right word, since ” lost” did not seem to fit the situation. Her lamp could not be lost, nor was such an idea possible. It was there last night, so surely it had to be here this morning.  “p’raps I’ve been dreaming. Yes!” , she thought , ” I must be dreaming! S’pose I’m  lucid..”. Suddenly, she became very exited, for it had been a very long time since she had last had a lucid dream. Quickly, she  thought of flying, worried that her lucid state would fade, but did not stir the slightest bit. She was definitely not dreaming.

Laura flopped back onto her bed. “then how?…” She thought, incredulously. ” My lamp doesn’t have legs, and it doesn’t have arms, so what in heaven’s name happened to it? A robber stole into my room in the middle of the night, perhaps? “But no”, she remembered ” that couldn’t  have happened! oh, heavens no! I’m the lightest sleeper around! you can’t wave a feather over my face without startling me! well, no matter, I shall take a look around to see if everything is in order”. To Laura’s shock, this was absolutely not  the  case. Every single lamp and electronic item had either lost a bulb, gotten smashed into pieces, or been thrown away altogether. The floor was littered with random piles of nic nac, bric-a-brack, bone-china platters,  and deed settlement papers, among other things.   “WHAT?!? Laura shrieked” WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?!? WHO’S BEEN IN THIS HOUSE?!?” she moaned, falling onto a partially ripped chaise lounge. “I just wanted to be a simple HOUSE WIFE! OH XAVIER! XAVIER!” she wailed, chanting her husband’s name, (who, as it seemed, was not going to appear any time soon).

Trying to regain composure  she dabbed her eyes, got up, and tip-toed out the french doors and into the patio.  For a second, she froze. Not only could she see clouds all around her, but, she realized, she was In them! her entire house, and the patio garden, was in the air2

x  x  x  x  x  x  x x  x  x  x

“I must be going mad!”, thought Laura “One moment my lamp has gone on holiday, and the next, my house is floating above the ground!” “heavens help me! I’ve gone hopping mad! Insane! off my rocker! lost my marbles!-” ” you haven’t lost your marbles, madam.” said a voice. Laura jumped.  ” Blame me if you want to throw someone under the bus. But it certainly isn’t you.” Suddenly, a well dressed gentleman with light brown curls and soft hazel eyes stepped out of the corner hedge in the garden, where, apparently, he had been hiding. He smiled at Laura, then turned around and looked up at the sky. slowly he turned back again and looked directly into Laura’s eyes.  “Isn’t this just lovely? I know I’m having a splendid time! “, he said, cocking his head sideways “Aren’t you?”

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry 


1-Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden is a Oxford student who currently resides on a cheap little flat in Northampton. He is your typical college student who chooses to spend his time by playing World of Warcraft, shopping at Waitrose, watching football on the telly with his mates, and running after his secret admirer, Harriet Braddock, who, according to Ed, does not know that he exists-and rightly so, for he is simply a character spun from my imagination and is not an actual living entity.

2 this story was later made into an animated short  by a dastardly movie company called pix-something, loosely basing it off of this story by Edgar P. Roger-Fitzwalden And Golden star poetry. 3

3  disregard all other footnotes. they were a horrid attempt at nonficionalizing a fictional idea, and therefore have been written for the enjoyment of the reader only.

Stream of consciousness #6


I suppose you could say the village grave poem and this one are loosely related to Romeo and Juliet  since that’s what we’re studying in English class right now…

Stream of consciousness #6 

at the foot of my door sits a wench

whose legs are bent

and doesn’t speak a word to me

even when I whisper hello to her.

she minds her own business, I think, or at lest I think that’s what I think

you left me, like a wilted flower,

did I look like the woman there?

disheveled hair?

or was I a bundle of wilts

lying like a mung-root, crying my eyes out

simple, pleading, desperation?

x  x  x  x  x   x x  x x  x x x x  x  x  x x

where the devil’s head are you? I plead, I scream and struggle to hold onto a mung-root that beetroot still stuck in the soil. Howling, touching the innermost fibers of the ground. I see the sky unfold, I think, or I think that’s what I think, It lies there, like a lilting summer facade, you touched it, it melts almost instantly. and it hurts. “WHY YOU DID THAT?” lying in pain, I howl, yelling, looking at her face, which is also scarred from a charred facade late years ago. I whimper to her, but I see only kind eyes, and an understanding smile: she is my mother I realize, she is my mother.

 x x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x  x

light as a feather you are, light as a feather.

you lift up only one finger, and come crashing down.

you swore on the seedling

that it would lift you up

and temporarily

you were a smart girl-

you did not kiss boys in the street

and neel at their feet

like kristabella whose eyes have tempted everyone and anyone

you keep your distance girl

you stay safe

you be the girl the girl that people say

“wasn’t that  who got stuck in a tractor wheel last summer last

I remember her poor lass she was my best pal”

and they take you away to the cemetery-

they all say it was death!

it wasn’t death, you say,

lifting your finger,

it was suicide.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

“Between the Lines” recap and a poem “only a feather on the beach”


I stayed up until about 10:45 last night reading the book, and finished it in about four hours because of the large print. It was a bit annoying, stylistically speaking, because it’s in that lazy format “I see the girls walk by me. they don’t speak to me, even when I say hello to them. Then, I realize that I have to get going and stand up straight”, and the story was a bit tiresome at points, but I was glad to be able to sit and read for a change. It was quite creative and amusing overall. There were parts in the story that just couldn’t have been more cliche- a friend saying they “didn’t recognize them anymore” and felt betrayed, parents thinking a child was crazy-plus the whole “romance” aspect was pretty dumb, and extremely unbelievable. At certain points in the story I kind of felt like I was reading some stupid teen’s novel where the romance and the love is all contrived and you get absolutely nothing from it, and the ending was pretty sappy, but otherwise, yes, I guess you could say it was a pretty good book. Now for today’s poem!

Only a Feather on the Beach

I mastered the way to hold a rope

from swinging on the branch.


they called it,

dangled on the edges, made dips in my pockets.

why was I so tangled,

soft, slump, thinking?

I was just me two years ago.

Unknotted as i think this,

an apple falls to the ground. I eat it.

It tastes like a mowed lawn.

Mother and I exchange looks, until

I realize it’s not her, it’s you.

we both look somewhat surprised,

the looped arch of our touching

fingertips suspended in midair.

before they do, the raven calls to me,

minding his own business at the same

time. I hear only a bird’s shouts, or something like it.

You slipped away from me, and as you left me, all there was of you were caws and calls

I held on to only a feather.

I talk about you to the tree we had always sat under

The other whispers I hear form a swooshing barrier

to nudge my head at, lovingly, as any loyal cat.

The tree would have wanted the affair: she cringes as i say your name-

“Four-long-years-of-devotion”, the tree explains:


The tree cries beside me, my rival, on

heaven’s deep green grove, crying because I was happy.

I looped a hole out of the knot and gave it to the tree

it happily ties it around it’s trunk

I saw it hum

I heard it cup it’s hands over it’s ears and smile

and the doves that had made her their home gave no reply to her,

but instead

settled on my shoulder;

her branches wrecked havoc with your Raven Wing

the tree wanted to run back to me, panting with happy exhaustion,

pointing at the town that the war had crumbled, demolished:

the plumes of smoke make frames around the skies edges,


licking my finger and testing the wind’s direction

I know that it still lies in the hands of the enemy.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Book Review: Between the Lines


I just waltzed in through the school library today when I had nothing else to do, saw a title that caught my eye, and was very pleased to see that it sounded like an actual STORY (every other teen fiction novel reads like a garbled blur-I CANT PICTURE ANYTHING IN MY MIND WHEN I READ THEM and have therefore  STOPPED READING COMPLETELY!!-or-for the most part)! It is a bi-author collaboration, written by both Jodi Picoult, and her daughter, Samantha Van-Leer. I haven’t read that far it yet because I just checked it out. Apparently, one of my friends in school said she was fighting with another one of my friends over the book last week! I am really to lazy to write down a synopsis, but I’m sure all you adoring fans of mine will be willing to open up another tab and search it yourself.


I feel like I just reunited with a long-lost friend! 🙂

so yeah.

Have a great Passover (and don’t get constipated from all the matza!!).

Your happy reader,

–Golden Star Poetry

between the lines review

The Strangest thought- unnecessary words spoken from the village grave


Of what was blackest:

the hair, the eyes, the garments and all

he falls and catches

breaks and runs

and, finally,

lies upon the grass.

“oh how I wish I were the grass he laid upon”

spoke the village grave

“I wished he kissed the earth

when he came back from battle”

spoke the village grave,

“I wished I were the smile that played upon his lips,

beneath that black sky and the perfect ebony tides”

spoke the village grave,

“I’d be the blanket warm he kept,

that when upon the rising

gets discarded on the bed,  he is saying:

too close, too close-

cry in the tomb when all the  people are sleeping

adventure plagues my mind the most”

Sopke the village grave, nodding at the truth of it

prodding at the root of it

and wont to budge, trying fervently

to break the soil of it’s long  dawn.

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Four limericks


Four limericks


I once took a trip to an isle

who’s native young girls had no style

they would walk to the zoo

dressed in rags and one shoe

(for the other was lost back one mile)


On the side of a lake called Gadib

is an orphan still stuck in his crib

all surrounded by muck

and quite terribly stuck

without water or clothing or bib!


when  you closely inspect through my room

you will see it’s in need of vaccuumme

all my sheets are a mess

(mom expects nothing less)

and to clean it is surely my doom!


As I study alone for a test

I do find that it seems to be best

if I stand on a tree

with my leg to my knee

and the yoga takes care of the rest!


Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry



Stream of Consciousness #5


like a a man with no legs, you trudge on the ground

you hound for your meat not like the other men who scoul at home cooked meals

and or couldn’t care less
who is it? answer the door NOW or else I will

get a tantrum and you will not like me

who knows maybe I will kiss you in your sleep or your black hair will be mine to keep

and you will stand up and like tarzan what they say you are not the same little boy I knew

not the same little boy

not the same little boy

x x x  x  x  x   x   x  x  x  x  x   x x x

cross the alter with you head bowed high bowed low do not let them or tell them what you know it is secret darling dear do not worry do not fear do not even shed a tear for you little lamb, the prizewinner of Egypt and the gold star fighter at the Olympics congratulates you with open arms and loves to praise you and give thanks to your body he says so athletic and strong and what not
but I grab you by the temples and slowly you bleed
Yael, they say, what has become of your maiden-hood, your life is a waste they said, now cut off my beard and leave it at that don’t stall around muttering and chewing on rawhide.

x  x  x  x  x   x  x  x  x  x  x

It was the same where I grew up,

the girl was the girl

and the boy was the boy

and the seder was the seder

and the matza was the pasta.

you liked to give me a summer laugh

like the oranges in the back.

You like to bake,

I say,

bake for me some other day,

not you , you too? you too?

he is in the way of things now you think you think you think because you do not drink.

Love, it is so frutile and futile

where can you get some fresh love that has no yet been

opened or obsessed with?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry




I just found out I have 50 followers on this blog! I can’t believe it! I will honorarily thank

“Words of Birds” as my first follower and “Whorlstrom Poetry” as my 50th follower

one poem for each follower:

words of birds

in misty summer it happened

on the lamp post

on a lazy afternoon.

she thought she could hear

the words of birds just outside,

but the screen porch clink had left them


Away, to fly,they said

and suddenly- she heard her love, disguised as a bird

in misty summer it happened.

Whorlstrom poetry

whorsltrom, the child was saying

the monster and the Bedouin

and the goat and the sheared ox

and the levy crossway park

and the highway ark

are like something out of a novel,

(and then the child knew

before he knew)

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

Sonnet #8 revision, and a silly limerick poem!


Today I was very perturbed when I realized that my sonnet was not a real sonnet because it did not  have a couplet at the end!!!!!!

Therefore I have decided to finish it properly, like any good Samaritan would:

Sonnet #8 REVISED

I run into a land that speaks of youth

that stirs with fire rage and gypsy band

and when at last at home I tell the truth

I feel a stranger but on my own land.

The flock of birds won’t stop to listen in

as I recount the days events alone

I find a loss of words as I begin

explaining all the joy of gypsy tone.

The lute is calling forth my destiny

The lyre is drifting in my spirit sleep

The tambourine has lulabied my infancy

And quieted my babe’s young urge to weep.

It seems as if I have grown up none so

from childish self that never lets me go.



and on that note, here is today’s poem: It is a silly poem made out of four limericks, and is not intended to make any sense!

Dead, Dying, Deceased and gone off- or how I spent My summer in Jamaca

now the quotient of dumb versus blind

Is the same as “no child left behind”

All my teachers are dead

Or they’re gone to be wed

at the fanciest church they could find


And the sum of bengal and a bog

Is as bad as a Londoner’s fog

the pedestrians died

from a bi fractured side

when the driver was being a hog


And so now we have multiple ends

of these  teacher-pedestrian’s friends

who have gone to the grave

and who haven’t been saved

or I think-I don’t mean to offend.


One last word just before I shall go

(for those people who don’t really know)

I am writing this thing

at the top of a swing

And I’m thinking of things I can throw!

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry