Portfolio: Good Soup Cookbook, poetry

 

Ryan Moira Renea Greindur Hebert

Ms. N C D

Creative Writing English 4

20/11/2024

 

Good Soup Cookbook - learning to cook solo

 

A good soup for the disturbed. A disturbing soup to the comfortable.

A collection of pre-written poems, thrown in the crock pot.

This meal is the feast of a lifetime.

 

 

I wash my hands 

that icy bathroom dribble

and water-filled soap

 

Grandma knew how to fix something

or spread that buttery dollar

but there's one thing she’d never leave:

 

Her baked mac and cheese

Seasonings? Who needs ‘em

Milky noodles on a tray!

Crunchy breadcrumbs the cherry on top

 

I never loved Grandma’s food but

the world she spawned, 

I could not get enough, of her everlasting ‘love’

 

Mother may say she has

no redeeming qualities

however she raised me that same

way she had been shamed

 

The hat may be different,

reflection forever the same.

 

Never say I can't miss that

foggy crunchy mess!

 

Charlotte is gone and not, an

enigma or phantom which:

Haunts my mind and

 

terrorize me til’

I am demised.

 

but I will always crave.

that milk noodle soup.

 

 

 

The Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell!

That's what people always say

But you, dear Golgi apparatus,

you're not known today.

 

You package our proteins

because no one else knows how,

and if anyone ever wrongs you

I'll have a big fat cow.

 

You, dear Golgi apparatus,

you are my lovely little honey bee

Tugging at crates, flying miles with pollen, you’re

the only one strong enough to heave them around me! 

 

My dear apparatus,

your tubes look like flowers

I just can’t get past the fact

that you must have superpowers!

 

Your meaning is beyond recognition

No one knows about your trans face,

or your lumen,

I know your features at any time, and place

 

Your vesicles and cis face

have been too beautiful to me

The fact you hide,

like a lovely little honey bee, in a field of toads

 

My dear Golgi apparatus,

don't underestimate your strength

Little Golgi apparatus,

you can carry so many boxes

a thousand-plus! 

 

Cells are so lucky to have you,

my dear apparatus.

You're so calm in our bodies

you never even make a fuss

 

My dear Golgi apparatus,

your small scale makes you whole

My dear apparatus,

you complete my soul

 

My dear Golgi apparatus,

you tend to the cell with such care

But my dear Golgi,

our lives are really unfair

 

Getting picked on by other organelles

Little do they know we are more than they think

Like last Thursday,

when we disappeared in just a blink.

 

Hiding in tulips with you, 

Golgi,

you make me feel a relentless safety

while I'm lost in this field of pansies

 

We’re never noticed or appreciated

but you and me,

my dear Golgi apparatus,

are a beautiful honey bee flame to be-

We just need to flap our wings.

 

 

Stressing plot and Snowy escaping

His beasty claws grip and grab 

at trembling fingers and Shivering arms. 

 

Slim pickings when the island is closed

Ever fleeing a passing gaze,

I see this monster and who it pretends to be. 

 

He comes from the earth, he comes from the artic,

a traveling symbiote of black goo

a freezing slicing grip of claws as

 

the Snowstorm dances. alone and

the feet trudge the gulf

eating a human,

and then four more

 

Easy to take a crazy man away

from the affluent paying fingers,

when the rich man pays for his own demise.

 

Stuck, locked, in an invisible cage

Bologne betrayal and Salami cuts

Icy beast, yelling human tongues

 

In a glass box, the beast thrash

Apparent knowledge of locks 

and over-bulking body

 

Travel now, take the world by force.

No one listens to the depraved rantings of an anxious woman.

especially when it comes to beasts

and the wrong-doings of rich men,

 

See him now: he

who devours his words said,

while the beast chomps his bones

into fine amber shards-

worth a million more, than his games- 

his spoiled plan

 

Unlapped spoiled meat cutlets stink less

than this man's bull,

and less than his treasured betraying beast

 

 

Someone's discarded boot showed up at my front doorstep

The boot had no tag and it was beaten to hell

 

I felt bad for the leather,

ripped and tattered and covered in mites

that never washed away

 

It was new, probably six months old

The soles are worn, though. too

hard to walk on

 

Making it wait outside in an old box,

in that cold snowy abyss. made me 

feel no better than the boot's true owner

 

But there was a reason that boot came to us

the boot was hurt and needed repairs, and

dad gave the O.K. to bring it in, and fix it up

 

The tattered boot still had internal problems

The tongue never sat  quite right,

stitching ripped, no laces

 

but we loved our boot.

This weathered boot became family,

family like no other we had before.

 

Our boot grew into a lovely sweet Shoe Carnival and

she proved how easy it is. to be changed by love.

and some leather polish.

 

 

All of the souls I was once kindred to have withered away

leaving the broken remains of who I once was

what I used to be

 

There should be a point where I would stop trying

but I keep trying and trying-

Attempting to weasel my way back into whatever routine and normalcy I had

 

Persistence is a curse and I pity those who will let go

and leave someone out like trash. I can’t believe that I was blocked,

but I should have seen it because

the trash I was called left a stain on my heart,

haltering my progress and growth:

a wilted draughted plant

 

The deep pain is like a boisterous lipoma 

digging its fingers deeper. and deeper.

 

Some day I will have to give up but that day is nowhere near

So if you'll excuse my attitude or my angry words

you left me here like a puppy you got bored of.

A broken toy from your dollhouse that you replace with the newest and prettiest model that hasn't half the personality as I.

 

Take your shitty lies and get out

because I can't leave on my own.

I'm trapped in a cycle that I was born into.

A cycle that is unstoppable from the inside

ripping and tearing at pieces of my being

 

Look into my eyes and see the truth: that

I wear my heart on my sleeve and I am constantly thrown into doorjambs

bruising ripping pulling at my soul.

 

Tear as many pieces as you want from me

because I will stick with you,

accepting the treatment as a stray.

I can't escape my own brain like you can your broken dolls

 

But It's all fun and games until your toys fight back,

fight back against the abuse you subject them to

and make you hurt for leaving that poor puppy in the field.

 

We all know that a dog cannot survive on his own and will starve when abandoned

Figure out that when a dependency is born,

so is a cycle. A cycle that is inescapable and gray. 

Seeing you in my blocked accounts drives me mad-

I need answers, reasons, anything!

 but I'm too brave to try your game again.

 

 

The grass was cold and saturated beneath my bear feet

This walk of clarity isn't helping. The dew soaks

my paw pads, grounding me to our Earth

yet, I still have the urges and the desires

and without my pack, I can't do this

 

I sit here on this jagged brick, with

tears running down my face

My claws dig into the earth

and my nose runs,

as I realize I am hardly the victim in this story

 

Bittersweet tears of realization 

and no notifications to help

They all gave up on me.

I'm the hopeless animal that not even the pound could save

No helping this beast.

 

 

There are no stars in the sky tonight 

No star to look up, to share my burdens

I did see a plane

but the plane did not see me

for I am the invisible-

 

never seen no matter how hard I cry

and how hard I beg 

for empathy, I am in desperate need

 

I haven't a soul to trust 

nor do I want to trust a soul.

Pity falls around me like a cold and bitter rain,

but my cries have yet to hit the ears

muffled by my sins. my cries are unheard

or better yet, let's say they're ignored

because that's who I am-

 

I am the one you pass by and haven't a second thought, nor a second glance

Hell, I didn't have a first.

I pray that I will not be the emotional tragedy that I have always feared

and I instead will be someone, and something, that is hard to ignore

 

These thoughts are booming in my head

these emotions bigger than my shell can hold

My heart is bleeding out and all I need are some bandaids

I know it's pitiful to say such a thing and yet I get pity for the wrong things

 

Empathize with how I feel:

I lost everyone

those I sacrificed myself for

And no one asks me how I am, no one asks me how I've been coping

They ignore me until it's convenient to love me again. 

 

Friends turned to foes and foes turned to spirits that haunt my mind and never my inbox

I am alone; picking up the phone to the telemarketers just to hear someone say my name

I am the forgotten and the unheard and you think you are unheard too

so why make me feel the pain of which you have been dealt

 

 

I listen to the cicadas call in the night

Their chirp is calming and their song united-

like the delicate rain of spring.

The hours fly by, and the frogs join the chorus

The symphony tingles through my head, as a beautiful melody

sweet and calming.

The choir reaches a height I cannot,

the song touches the twinkling stars. gently, like a breeze forcing

the trees to drop their flowers, and they lay scattered, scattering

petals float slowly as if time were void 

 

Which he is. always silently stalking, slinking

Time means seldom when I'm forlorn,

listening to the song of the summer choir,

sitting in the bracing breezes that send chills down my spine.

 

Being alone is a thorn in the side and yet,

I lay in the clovers.

Hugged tight by the chorus and moonlight,

June bugs take wing overhead, lowly drummers

batting their wings hard, loud. thumping noise which was

breaking my beautiful sonnet and taking me back to reality

 

The reality that I am sole in this red fescue and

I'm the only one feeling the stinging wind and fluff of dandelions.

No one is sitting and shivering, in the squall with me

The one I love most can't hear the cicadas,

they can't even hear the crickets. from behind those stone walls.

 

The wings of the June bugs fade out and I'm once again distracted-

distracted from the chaos within

The cicadas pulled me into their siren song.

 

 

No one knows the ancient aesthetes

of the ancient Aztecs:

in apparition is where they loom

 

Tell me, son, were they aplomb?

These age-ed amigos say they were amok;

running and thieving, stealing the apricity they had unlock.

 

Adagio, my son

be audacious to the ancient ones;

an abysmal horoscope is handed to you,

 

apperceive now what they must do.

Ameliorate, my child. Atone! 

For anon, these men will lie encased in stone.

 

 

What should you do if,

three moon cycles pass and a heartbeat is born?

Would you be irresponsible on this dying planet?

 

Stepping into his office was steel: men are seldom understanding

Quacks office AC too high, only noise the

receptionist fingers typing fast: they halt

 

They halt with my heartbeat, at the words of a voice anything but Mellifluous

“The test came out positive. You’re pregnant.”

Noisey keyboard resumed;

heartbeat number one still stalled.

The mechanical beeping of heartbeat two brought bittersweet feelings of Elysia and Macabre

 

It couldn't be. 

my body is not my own, I declare,

something has me hostage here.

I can seldom stand alone,

how will I lift and play with a baby,

a toddler, or child?

My mother could lift me, her same size,

can my baby not have the same?

Or hell,

would they come out like me?

Would we only have a few years before the hyperextension gives daily dislocations?

 

Clumsy kids are destined to fall apart, designed brittle

Stinging tears slipped to the floor

What are the chances of a PCOS baby?

Will I get attached only to lose them..?

 

God damn these shitty genes. RCCX

can't take me down, but

how about a kid in a worsening world?

I remember falling apart, my

tendons peeling from my bones! and

muscles inflamed simply from standing

I internally hit myself.

“You are not your parents,”

but the conflict worsened.

 

Standing from the table, my vision fades to black

the small remaining box showed the colliding floor tiles

I will always be

fighting for my life as much as theirs.

 

I take my own hand,

lift my bootstraps,

and pat my belly.

 

I know it's wrong to bring a new human into a dying world

but the machine beeped a little heartbeat,

It's overwhelming. A sweet baby with my face, swaddled in a decorated crib, drooling a yucky puddle into the sheets,

I adore the image.

 

Don't get me wrong,

I wouldn't have a baby. My body is too fragile.

That child would be worse off than I, I fear from

 

toxic lessons ingrained into my head.

Something awful has burrowed into my grey matter!

I am not my parents, I repeat,

I am not my parents.

I could raise a baby, a functional happy family:

I would be a fantastic parent-

 

If I wasn't born broken and pained

I am responsible for passing on my shitty genes and my disabilities.

I won't, I can't. It's wrong, sinful to cause harm to my innocent child.

The sweet lump of cells would have to go,

so we can be at peace.

 

What would I do,

If I ever grew a life? 

I fear I wouldn’t have the courage to take it away.

 

Writing this is difficult too draining

thinking about a family that I can’t start 

It's Laborous.

 

I am not my parents,

I won't bring a life into this world only to spend every waking day trying to snuff it out. I'm not cruel. I'm not evil.

My children will be the happiest, 

and they won't know the pains of the crip.

 

A crip- a term I've seen through disabled poet Laura Hershey. It means someone disabled, usually with a mobility aid, especially a wheelchair. In Translating the Crip, I felt power through her words. The first stanza sits with me tighter than compression socks and a weighted blanket: that simple, “Can I translate myself to you? / Do I need to? / Do I want to?” brings me unlimited comfort.

If these words hold a meaning deep inside, you've lived as a crip, gawked at but unseen. The violation that comes from the able-bodied noses digs a deep trench into your heart and soul- hands off of my wheelchair and my cane! I did not ask to be pushed, you did not ask but demand why I am here in your walking space! The answer could be anything I want- who’s to say I won't say shark attack?

My cane-cramped elbow holds me up. This spine of mine is weak, too brittle to hold itself. Tables support my chest, cramping my porcelain spine, chair forcing my hips to sublux; dystonia and muscle pitting biting deep into my nerves! Autonomia is a gift of great proportions- A limited range of motion is a gift! Tendons snap together and create sparks, blood doesn't flow, and nerves always burn. 

But the pain of the crip doesn’t end with unending body pain. Comorbidity brains hoard issues to pass- children born worse and worse, disabilities and inabilities piling and piling into a human, who is barely that. A barely walking, stumbling bag of still-and-pooling blood, and disconnective tissues.

The abled don't consider us who want the gift to create life. The abled don't see us or our pain, they simply gaze over our heads. Imagine a crip sitting in a sterile office, hunched over in pain because there are no handles in this tiny room! Wheelchair needs to stay in the waiting room, it can't fit into the back room- Why would a wheelchair need access in Planned Parenthood? Crips don't have sex, it would be a waste of space.

Why don't we have kids? Why won't we create another broken body? A broken body will fracture into further generations, so we crips are at home, tenderly loving a golden dog who plays the role. A crip with a child, a child with a crip? These laws don't want it.

The sterile whiteness of Planned Parenthood is as violating as having an IUD forced upon your body. The crip never consented, a doctor simply assuming the burden too much. Quack quack, I repeat silently as he walks in, papers in hand, but he's not reading them. He thinks he knows my body better than I.

Heart fractured into two separate beats… The Tell-Tale Heart cannot compete with the real beeping of the fetus- I need to burrow into the floorboards! Fetch the heart and bring it to life, or fetch it and bring it to death?

Tale of the crip- to be, or not to be? Will I allow myself to fall apart for a child who will fall apart worse? My mother never believed my muscle-shredding pain was worse than hers could have been- not even when presented with facts. I educate myself more than the specialists! I am living with myself every day- How dare you say I am not real? My tale- the tale of my own crip- has been bad. Crip brains are susceptible to memory loss or never form the memories at all. Medical trauma keeps us alone- Authority trauma keeps us scared.

Nobody will ever take my body away from me, I have worked harder than you ever will, to keep myself glued together, but a second beat would be my poison.

 

“Translating the Crip Laura Hershey 1962 –2010

Can I translate myself to you?
Do I need to?
Do I want to?

When I say crip I mean flesh-proof power, flash mob sticks and wheels in busy intersections, model mock.

When I say disability I mean all the brilliant ways we get through the planned fractures of the world.

When I say living in America today I mean thriving and unwelcome, the irony of the only possible time and place.

When I say cure I mean erase. I mean eradicate the miracle of error.

When I say safe I mean no pill, no certified agency, no danger to myself court order, no supervisory setting, no nurse, can protect or defend or save me, if you deny me power.

When I say public transportation I mean we all pay, we all ride, we all wait. As long as necessary.

When I say basic rights I mean difficult curries, a fancy-knotted scarf, a vegetable garden. I mean picking up a friend at the airport. I mean two blocks or a continent with switches or sensors or lightweight titanium, well-maintained and fully-funded. I mean shut up about charity, the GNP, pulling my own weight, and measuring my carbon footprint. I mean only embrace guaranteed can deliver real equality.

When I say high-quality personal assistance services I mean her sure hands earning honorably, and me eating and shitting without anyone's permission.

When I say nondisabled I mean all your precious tricks.

When I say nondisabled privilege I mean members-only thought processes, and the violence of stairs.

By dancing I mean of course dancing. We dance without coordination or hearing, because music wells through walls. You're invited, but don't do us any favors.

When I say sexy I mean our beautiful crip bodies, broken or bent, and whole. I mean drooling from habit and lust. I mean slow, slow.

When I say family I mean all the ways we need each other, beyond your hardening itch and paternal property rights, our encumbering love and ripping losses. I mean everything ripples.

When I say normal I don't really mean anything.

When I say sunset, rich cheese, promise, breeze, or iambic pentameter, I mean exactly the same things you mean.

Or, when I say sunset I mean swirling orange nightmare. When I say rich cheese I mean the best food I can still eat, or else I mean poverty and cholesterol. When I say promise I mean my survival depends on crossed digits. When I say breeze I mean finally requited desire. When I say iambic pentameter, I mean my heart's own nameless rhythm.

When I say tell the truth I mean complicate. Cry when it's no longer funny.

When I say crip solidarity I mean the grad school exam and the invisible man. I mean signed executive meetings, fighting for every SSI cent.

When I say challenges to crip solidarity I mean the colors missing from grant applications, the songs absent from laws. I mean that for all my complaints and victories, I am still sometimes more white than crip.

When I say anything I know the risk: You will accuse me of courage. I know your language all too well, steeped in its syntax of overcoming adversity and limited resources. When I say courage I mean you sitting next to me, talking, both of us refusing to compare or hate ourselves.

When I say ally I mean I'll get back to you. And you better be there.

 

Laura Hershey
November 2010”