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Sunday, February 24, 2013

Response to Scaffolding Inside You

We had to read this for class. Here is my response and a poem I wrote:

I was just taken off of some psych medicines and this poem struck a chord with me. I’ve been in that place before where things just don’t seem to fit and the despair is too overwhelming.  Since I am going through a withdrawal, things got awkward and tense with Patrick this weekend that I just felt like walking away to the point that the lines “you should bury more than the dead/you should try harder/you should give up” struck and resonated with me. It brought me back to feelings of my life before the diagnosis and how I just wanted to walk away from everything just because I couldn’t do it. My life felt like this: “the sky has stopped/ offering you reasons to live and your heart is the rock/ you threw through each window/ of what deserted you…” This poem just made me feel really hollow and like crying. I wrote my own poem about how I felt this weekend:
You should give up,
you have tried hard enough,
the voices inside me scream.

The scaffolding inside me
where memories are taken by their neck
and hanged to punish for their sins;
their screams haunt the crevices
as the fear builds these four walls.

Welcome to hell, the voices say and the labels read.
“Don’t think, you’re not able to, not in the right mind,
just sit down and take what you’re supposed to…”

But inside me, the voices grow louder,
the taunts twist and agonize;
will this ever end? Will I ever be normal?
will I ever live a life free of these drugs?
will I ever just be happy for once?
will I ever stop obsessing?
Like I was promised, like I was told,
these would change my life for the good—
but I am no longer woman,
the blood trickles away,
and fat replaces the dilapidation,
the curves just chip away.

You should just give up,
you have done enough and you ruined it,
the scaffolding will always remind me.

Leben, Lieben

Leben Lieben (I)
Leben, lieben,
for a beginner German the mistake is easy—
to live is to love,
or to love is to live.
But is the mistake that easy?
What happens when you don’t
live to love
or love to live,
where do you begin?

Leben Lieben (II)

Leben, lieben,
to the eye they look similar—
to live is to love
or to love is to live.
It’s very easy to confuse,
but is it really?
What happens when you don’t
live to love
or love to live,
where do you begin?

Thursday, February 21, 2013


Yesterday Christina, Patrick and I did a photoshoot. One with the film camera and the other with the digital. I'm posting the digitals:

To keep up with my photography album: The Photography Life

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Just Got Stuck

I just got stuck with a poem. Any advice, ideas would be awesome! Here's what I have so far:
"Damn, it's cold and I wish I had a hat," he shivered as he started the car.
"I have a fleece one," I subtly replied, "But, it's Packers."
"That's okay. The Packers aren't bad, I'll be a fan for the night!"
So I handed off my hat, one of my prized Packers possessions.

I want to emphasize the possession part and make it almost like that possession doesn't matter; happiness and love that matters (I know, I know, sappy. Shoot me now). Maybe I'll write this:
"Damn, it's cold and I wish I had a hat," he shivered as he started the car.
"I have a fleece one," I subtly replied, "But, it's Packers."
"That's okay. The Packers aren't bad, I'll be a fan for the night!"
So I handed off my hat, one of my prized Packers possessions.
He quickly threw it on, it looked snug on his head,
so he smiled at me and thanked me very much; I smile,
I am relieved he took my hat--$4 in Limerick, a surprise last year,
usually you can't find Packers things just anywhere in Pennsylvania—
he looks so nice and warm.

"Dude, Packers, really?" his friends harp on him;
he just smiles and says, "what? They're—"
"my hat," I interjected. "I'm a huge Packers fan."
I'm nervous, maybe that was a good indication,
but the subject quickly changes
and he hands me back my hat, for safe keeping he whispers.

"Where is your hat," he frantically feels his head and panics,
"We'll look for it when we get to my house,"
"I hope I didn't lose it!"
We eventually did find it after quickly searching, ending with a hug.

Maybe it's too bizarre and the meaning is lost?

Saturday, February 16, 2013

The Camera

I wrote this poem the other day and shared it with poetry professor and she's unsure about rhyme (she hates rhyme). I'm going to post it here to see what people think. Oh, I also edited Mr. Army Man to be shorter (with the help of my professor) and changed the title since "Mister" gives off the married connotation.

The Camera

My dad's prized possession,
the label dated from 1979.
The body, silver and black,
a shiny gloss sure looks fine.

It zooms for 10 miles,
and can print 8x10s.
It loads film pretty fast,
but breaks it when
I wind it the wrong way.

When I wind and wind
and the pressure's tight,
sometimes I think with
a passion of fright and flight,
but the feeling is fleeting.

With my dad's prized possession,
I take photos with Mr. Army man;
I'm surprised he lets me,
as he dresses in uniforms so tan.

With my dad's prized possession,
I like the time spent with him--
laughing, finding the right spot;
on field, on grass, in the gym.

With my dad's prized possession,
I also take photos with friends,
with goofy smiles and funny poses,
we take and take until the roll ends.

Now becoming my prized possession,
memories are made,
I feel the bond grow between us;
with Mr. Army man, the feelings wade.

My prized possession
takes pictures so shiny,
a lovely hue or black/white,
the negatives are so tiny.

With my prized possession,
the memories are shared
with cards or scrapbooks
made with love and care.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Mr. Army Man

It's more of a prose poem, off the cuff type writing. Please let me know what you think.
Mr. Army Man

I sit here on Facebook

and I look through the pictures,

wishing I had Mr. Army man.

I met him on the bus

on a cold January day;

my grandmother had just died

and I needed a friend.

I had just missed the bus,

"Fuck," I muttered to myself;

"When is the next bus?"

I asked the guy standing, bundled up.

"Well, one just left,

I'm guessing 40 minutes."

So, we started talking.

He lives on the hillsides

of the Main Line,

across from where my trolley passes.

He's a Philly boy, born and raised,

Eagles fan, different from my love

of the Packers and everything Wisconsin—

he shows pride for his city unlike me,

but he loves his country the most.

Everyday he takes karate,

"strengthening," he flatly states,

he's so matter-of-fact;

I guess that's how the military operates—

this is my first experience,

I have always wanted a soldier boy.

He says I'm cool with a mix of weird;

we communicate via text,

I'm too nervous to talk—

but that's okay, at least he says

while we're out and about

traveling near and far.

He rides a motorcycle

and the wind blows my hair,

the rush is sudden

and takes my breath away,

but maybe it's him that does it.

I sit here on Facebook

looking through his Paintball pictures

from December, a little before Christmas.

He has pictures from his deployment,

he's stunning dressed in camouflage.

My heart beats fast;

I feel like a stalker,

the anxiety and sweats return.

I try not to think 

because my friends state

"That's how you always ruin yourself."

But, I know what I want

and I think I love Mr. Army man.


Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Scarlet A (not finished)

What do you think so far?

Scarlet A

Jessica Marie Cavaliere



carlet A. That’s what she felt like she had on her chest—a big scarlet A. She stood next to the casket; Alice’s father had died suddenly of a stroke. The organ bellowed as people walked through the receiving line offering their condolences. Then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted him.


It had started seven years ago in 2005 and Alice was only seventeen at the time. She was unemployed and helped her dad at his law office.

“You must be Alice. Your dad has raved about you,” an older man probably in his 50s and had thinning hair said to you.

She was nervous. “Yes, I’m Alice.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

“I’m Mr. Jones,” he extended his hand and began shaking ferociously while winking at her. Alice had beautiful blonde curly hair that hung halfway down her back. She had stunning blue eyes that shone like diamonds; she was attractive. However, she had brains and was top of her class.

“Nice to meet you,” she finally said. “it truly is.”

Mr. Jones smiled. The gold ring on his left hand shone in the sun that peered in from the window. It intrigued Alice—she had never seen a wedding band (she assumed it was a wedding ring from the finger it was situated on) so intricately made with the precious gold carved with what looked to be tribal tattoos.

“Would you mind typing these depositions?”

“Sure. What do I do?”

Mr. Jones smiled again, he bent down to turn on the computer and patted her on the shoulder. Alice jumped a little; she was surprised, but at the same time she liked the attention.

“First, wait for this to boot up. Then open Word and just begin typing what is on these papers,” he said as he composed himself and pointed to the stack of papers sitting on the desk next to her.

“Okay. I think that’ll be easy enough. Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

Mr. Jones stared longingly at her. “If you need any help, just call me. Here’s my number.” He scribbled quickly his number and walked out the door.


The new mail icon blinked on her screen.

Hi Alice,

I’m having lunch today, feel free to join me.

I’m going to the Roots Café on Gay St.

Hope to see you there! ~Mr. Jones


Lunch sounded great to Alice and she liked Mr. Jones. Although he was in his 50s and balding, there was an attractiveness to him and a maturity she liked; she didn’t find that in guys her age. Like they pay attention to me, she thought, Mr. Jones pays attention and he’s a great guy. She giggled at the thought of having lunch with him.

Hi Mr. Jones,

Lunch sounds great! What time?



They met at the Roots Café at noon on Gay Street in Baltimore. It was an eclectic little street with art houses, photography studios and vegan restaurants. Roots Café wasn’t vegan, but it was grass roots and everything locally raised.

“Alice, I was wondering,” Mr. Jones began as his Cuban was placed in front of him, “I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place this weekend and go swimming?”

“Sure, that sounds great and fun. I haven’t been swimming in a while.” In fact the last time Alice went swimming is when she was friends with Kerri and Betty; she had lost that group of friends in a fight over some guy, it was stupid in Alice’s mind. A Caesar salad with chicken was placed in front of Alice.

“Great. My step son will be in town. He’s visiting from Annapolis.”

“Annapolis! Is he in the Navy?”

“Yes and he’s 21. You’d like him.”

“That sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to meet him.” Alice lied, not whole heartedly because the prospect of meeting a twenty-one year old that was in the Navy sounded promising, but she liked Mr. Jones. And although he was married, which Alice liked his wife from when she met her when Mrs. Jones came to the office, she couldn’t help but fantasize about what it would be like to be with him. It pained her to think about the longing sometimes.

“Great, be at my house at 2. Here’s my address.”


Arriving at Mr. Jones’s house a little before two, Alice was already in her floral two piece. It was black with orange-red day lilies. The colour made Alice’s skin pale—and she was already ghostly. She didn’t care, however, she loved the way the top made her breasts stand out (though at 36 C, they didn’t really need help) and she could show off her voluptuous curves.

Standing at the front door and as she was about to knock, Mr. Jones opened the door and did a double take. She gave a sweet smile; what she had hoped for was working.

“Why, hello,” he stuttered a little bit. “Come—come on in!”

She walked into his house expecting his son and Mrs. Jones to be there. She gazed around the room a little bit and noticed they were alone.

“Where is everyone,” Alice asked.



Saturday, February 9, 2013

Looking for a Title

I'm looking for a title for this piece:

What is beauty, the glow of the candle?
On a cold day, the blow of the candle--

warmth in the restaurant that is stirred,
loving gaze, in our eyes goes the candle,

Outside, the white sprinkles the streets,
attention away melting snow from the candle--

our hearts melt instead, in silence felt,
emanating, a peaceful flow from the candle.

Jessica, a voice that longingly reassures,
Did I? Maybe I found my beau in the candle?

Maybe Candlelight would work?

Oh, my In Memory of Nan poem received a really good review from someone in my poetry class:

Hi Jessica,
I love both of your poems! The one I’m going to talk about though is “In Memory.” I like how your poem seems very real and honest. It does really feel like someone looking back on to a series of memories with someone close to them. The only thing I can say is you could hint more about who it is you’re talking about. I’m very curious to know more specifically, but perhaps that wasn’t your intent. Either way it is a great poem and I look forward to reading more of yours.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Visiting the Plumpton Park Zoo

The day was typical of June—warm with haze settling around the 10am sun. Mom, dad and I pulled out of our driveway in King of Prussia to go to the Plumpton Park Zoo in Rising Sun, Maryland. A 45 minute drive from West Chester, the Plumpton Park Zoo is a cozy, intimate little zoo that is worth the trip. Greeted by the scenes of peacocks walking on roofs and a totem pole cut from a tree, mom's 2008 silver Honda Accord pulled into the gravel pit parking lot. We were ready to go—this was our first time at this zoo (mom travels to Maryland for business, passes by Rising Sun, MD and always sees the green signs pointing to the attraction). It was surprising to see the peacock on the roof, but we were greeted by at least three other peacocks that are allowed to roam free at the zoo. I couldn't help but focus in on them as their beautiful blue plumes spread opened, giving all the spectators a show worth the $11 it was to get in.

The peacocks shows went on several times that day, but we also saw other beautiful creatures. The Plumpton Park Zoo houses a giraffe named Jimmie, in which they are raising money to build him a new home. Jimmie is an amazing creature and lovingly moves around as children fed and pet him. He was very gentle with the kids and the parents that were with them. It was too crowded to get closer up, which made me feel a little disappointed. The other animals are just as great, however; especially the Bactrian Camel. The Bactrian Camel had to be my favorite.

Plumpton Park Zoo (Future Article)

Hi everyone,
Well, my Zippin Pippin piece made the paper! It can be found here.
I have been so busy catching up with work that I have to write a piece by 7pm tonight. Readers, you might remember when I went to the Plumpton Park Zoo in June; well, I'm going to write about that. I loved that zoo and Rising Sun, MD is only 45 minutes away from West Chester. Not a bad ride at all. J

I'm going to get writing—I want to write a poem about last night then off to the Zoo!

Monday, February 4, 2013

Super Bowl 47

Dad showing off his Ravens jersey -- Joe Flacco!

(Mom took this one... hence the blurryness)

My cake and then Mike's birthday cake is behind.

The Super Bowl party was fun. :) Poem later (or tomorrow).

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Super Bowl Sunday -- Hooray, Hooay!

The assignment this semester for my poetry class is to write poems everyday and at the end compile them into a manuscript. What do you think of this poem?

Super Bowl Sunday—Hooray, Hooray!

Today is Super Bowl Sunday
hooray, hooray!
I have ready my purple and black,
preparing for the 49ers attack.
The cake is made
and I bought the Mike’s Hard Lemonade;
but the cake is cool, I may add,
fondant with logos, I’m not mad
that the baker put more yellow and red,
instead of purple and black, but I misread;
“my neighbors are 49er fans,
so instead of the ban,
make the Ravens and 49ers the same,
and put a football field, by name.”
But, the neighbors did ohhh and ahh,
amazed by the decadence and hoopla;
it should be a good cake,
and the memories that we will make.