Monday, May 17, 2010

Art Essay, Crosby, Junior Year

Sam Pickett
Even This Title is Art

When I was younger and even wimpier than I am now my mom used to say “there is safety in numbers”. That nugget of wisdom is true in some scenarios. Being lost in a spooky place at night or battling mutant alien invaders, for example. Art museums are a whole different story. When one attends an art museum with others, the dynamic often shifts from a group of kind-hearted friends to a gaggle of critics with inferiority complexes. Art is one of those topics (like religion and politics) that is impossible to successfully argue about. Personally, I would no more discuss art in a museum than I would touch the paintings “to feel how thick the paint was” (as my grandmother does).Before dismissing any art as “bad”, it is important to be aware of the concept behind it.
For years “art” had been an exclusive term. Realism was the only acceptable style of art. Religious paintings, bowls of fruit, and naked people were the extent of a “real” artists’ subject choices. There was nothing surprising about art; nothing funny or scary or controversial. Frankly, it was boring. This sense of boredom naturally progressed into new “conceptual” artists breaking every rule and making up their own.
The first group of ground-breakers were the Impressionists. At first, prestigious art schools and critics refused their work and ridiculed their talent. They were the original “starving artists”, surviving on their belief in the value of their work (and little else). Today the Impressionists (and every new art movement to follow) are praised for moving art in a new direction and breaking “the mold”.
It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “Well-behaved women rarely make history”. Well, the same goes for artists. When artists like Jackson Pollock, Pablo Picasso, Wassily Kandinsky, and Salvador Dali first appeared they were exceptionally controversial. Their entangled paint splatters, great canvases of color, and choppy, dissected portraits were unlike anything the world had ever seen.
Mark Rothko is one of the original revolutionaries. His great colored canvases might appear pretty simplistic at first. But Rothko was intelligent and cultured. He was influenced by Nietzche’s The Birth of Tragedy, which inspired him to “want to relieve man of his spiritual emptiness”.His work was inspired by mythology, war, and dreams, and he chose to use “art as a tool of emotional and religious expression.”
One of Rothko’s notable contemporaries was Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp is one of my favorites - he had a fantastic rare ability to never take art (or himself) too seriously. Throughout his career Duchamp displayed “Fountain” (more commonly known as a urinal); a bottle rack marked with his signature, and a bicycle wheel mounted to a stool. Duchamp created “found art” from “nothing”. He believed in all that art never was and saw what it potentially could be.
Duchamp and the others paved the way for artists like Andy Warhol and Damien Hirst. Warhol cemented his status in American culture with pop-art prints that were relatable in their simultaneous depth and superficiality. Hirst, the richest living artist to date, is best known for “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living”, a massive tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde.
If we are honest with ourselves, though, doesn’t abstract art just look like squiggles? In the end a urinal is really just a urinal and a dead shark is just a dead shark. Everybody and their grandmother has a bicycle, and access to paint, and urinals can be unhooked from walls pretty easily. So then why do many of us praise artists who slap price tags on ordinary objects and call them art? How are people supposed to look at paint splatters and feel moved? And where did Hirst find that gigantic dead tiger shark, anyway? Apologies for the forthcoming corny pun, but isn’t there something fishy about this whole situation?
According to Robert Hughes, a prominent Australian art critic, Damien Hirst’s works are “absurd” and “tacky commodities.” Hughes has said that commercial pieces with large price tags mean “art as a spectacle loses its’ meaning”. Hirst’s piece “For the Love of God” (a platinum, diamond-encrusted skull) sold for $100 million dollars in cash. Is that not a blatant example of art for the sake of profit, and not for self-expression? And earlier, back in 1917, the Society of Independent Artists rejected Duchamp’s “Fountain” because it “was not art.” I think in both cases the artists didn’t mean that a urinal or skull were art by themselves. Part of the beauty of art is it’s ability to be more of an idea than a concrete work.
I suppose it is a part of human nature to criticize. We criticize each other, we criticize ourselves, music, TV, laundry detergent, pretty much everything. But I have never understood why some people criticize art. Art is one of the pure, free things in this world. Art is its’ own world; an immortal organism that is all encompassing in its’ depth and relevance. “Conceptual” art gives the artist personal freedom, but more importantly it gives the viewer a personal invitation into the piece. What more do people want? I don’t know, I don’t have the answer…but I do know as surely as I know my own name that the work of Rothko, and Duchamp, and Hirst IS art. So, in the end maybe all I really have to offer is this piece of advice (for those who value their sanity): Consider very, very wisely who you visit an art museum with. For my part, I will always prefer to go alone.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

thinks it feels good to cry. crying is purifying, salt feels cleansing and right. my heart feels full and swirling, and even as the salt dries in lines on my cheeks my heart feels ever more full with red red liquid feeling.

Saturday, May 15, 2010



sometimes i fear that i might be incredible.


"Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive." ~Attributed to Howard Thurman

coming out ya mouth with your blah blah blah

i love

i love you, you who may or may not be reading this. i love you for taking the time to read it, and i love you for having eyes that see and move and roam and close and understand. i love you for having a faithful heart that beats red red blood, up and through steadily, and when your blood has stopped flowing i will still faithfully love you. i love you for the tears that wait right behind your eyes should you need them, and i love your fingerprints for smoothing the salty pain of yourself and of others. i love you for having fingerprints. remember that they are yours and yours alone. you are worthy of them. i love you for your hands, your strong frail capable hands, and i love that you could never grasp how inspiring you are. you are extraordinary to me, extraordinary and alive as the sun and the trees and the silver moon. i love you for every breath you take, however labored or angry or timid. i love you for your voice, for every conversation, for the words you expel into air like the sea moves the waves. i love you for your laugh, that laugh that is distinctly yours. i would know it anywhere. i love you for your fears, your vulnerability, your youth and your age. i love the wrinkles that lay beneath your skin until their time in the sun. i love you for your pale white ribs that protect your pulsing red red heart, that heart that i wish i could see, wish i could kiss, because it is yours and i love you. i love you for thinking this is one big cliche, and in your heart knowing every word is true. i love you for reading this, and for knowing, and for understanding. and i thank you for the waiting tears.

Rest in Peace, Emily Dickinson.


Friday, May 14, 2010

Forefathers Day Teen Essay Contest, 2008

Contest through the Pilgrim Society of Plymouth

Topic: How do you think young people can be involved in planning for  2020, the 400th anniversary of the Pilgrims' landing?


Response: Planning for 2020, by Samantha Pickett

Young adults are only interested in what we can relate to. In planning for the 400th anniversary of the Pilgrims' landing, the planning committee must answer this question: How can we get young people to realize that the story of the Pilgrims is still relevant and important?

My plan is to instruct every school in Plymouth to have their students write an essay on why the Pilgrims' story is important, how it has changed them, etc. Then, contact other schools around the globe and have their pupils complete the same assignment and mail it to the committee.

Next, have Plymouth's students correct and edit the essays which came from other parts of the world. This will open their eyes to the relevance of the Pilgrims' story today; how the entire world has been altered because of it.

Finally, at the time of the 2020 celebration, plant flags through out downtown Plymouth. These banners should have the essay of a student on each, and the flag should represent their home countries.

This plan involves hundreds of young people around the globe, is inexpensive, and reminds everyone that the Pilgrims' story is just as valued as it ever was.

Adding and Subtraction

Count mother, father, sister, me.

Now subtract one.

Does it matter?

Divorce,

As common as my dried tears,

Becomes less ominous.

What was once so painful

Has grown numb.

The bomb you dropped

Has finally cooled.

Like a scar

The invisible pain is betrayed by a map.

Alas,

My layers are thin.

**freshmen year

Jewelry Box

Joins my life and hers

Engraved grapes, flowers and vines twist

Withstands the test of time

Enclosed is soft velvet,

The light reflects off it's round surface

As it rests on three legs in my young room.

Years go on as the box absorbs memories

My beloved heirloom

The only possession ofmy great-grandmother's

That is mine.

Unites generations of women.

**freshmen year

The Red Cookout

Stomach growling I return with food

Picnic table scratches my palm

Stretch across the checkered cloth

For the ketchup.

Summertime smells of charcoal and burgers

Cloud my nose; I lick my lips

The sprinkler ticks like an unwatched bomb

I grin at this group of faces

SQUEEZE the red covers my burger

As a shot rings out and all is silent

A white streak folds like a paper fan

Picnic table clears as we all run to see.

Translucent face reflected in his pool of ketchup

I'm not hungry anymore.

**freshmen year

Bloodwork

On a shining silver tray,

Slender needles lie.

Enclosed in webs of cotton and lace,

They hypnotize the eye.

Oh, miniature sword

Strike clear and true!

Swallow drops of ruby blood

That shifts from red to blue.

Up the twisting sloping tubes,

You deliver your treasure sweet.

Leave but a red dot on my arm

What a heroic feat.

**freshmen year

Braces

Railroad tracks gleam bright

They cover my string of pearls

My healing necklace.

**freshmen year

Plymouth Is...

In the summer Plymouth is a different world

Sprinklers hum in green front lawns ad seagulls caw overhead.

Taste a Snoopy-shaped treat from the ice cream truck.

Smell the patchy, briny ocean and waves of sweet coconut sunblock.

Laugh at the red-bellied tourists as they bake on the beach.

Feel your skin erupt with goosebumps as you surface in a blue pool.

Enjoy this all-American summer while it's yours!

**freshman year

When I Draw

When I draw,

My pencil's lead is a translator

Which teaches my language

To the world.

When I draw,

The blank page is my brain

Smudges, streaks and shading

My thoughts.

When I draw,

My hand flying like time,

Ideas are being shaped

Like sandcastles at the beach.

When I draw,

The lead on my fingers

Eraser shavings on my shirt

Are words unspoken.

When I draw,

And I show you my picture,

Know that I am showing you

Myself.

** from Freshman year

Thursday, May 13, 2010

I am...


...drawing and dreaming.
After all, they go hand in hand.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010



Air

I want to eat the air. I need the light of the fading day and the scent of the yellowing grass to fill the spongy empty places inside of me that I try, unsuccessfully, to cover up. I am embarrassed to need the words of your approval that flit through my conscience like ghostly fireflies and leave far too quickly, becoming questions in my brain and surreal memories in my heart. I want to eat the air. I want it to inflate my tired lungs and keep them buoyant when my spirit is anything but, to give me stable breath to shout aloud when the dark water presses its' palms to my chin. I want to eat the air, and I want to eat the tallest trees, the darkest dirt, the fading light. I want to eat the air to taste the way the words felt in your mouth before they rolled off of that tongue I have so often thought of. I want to swallow the atmosphere and float above the treetops, above the questions, above what is real and into what should be - could be - will never be - real. And I want you to be there too, alongside the me who is insatiable. I want to eat the air. I want to watch you consume your share in your graceful way, and laugh with your eyes as you pretend to be full. I will be laughing too- we both know we are ravenous. The light of the fading day will appease but never satisfy.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Wish

Sometimes I wonder what the point of all of this is. I wonder why alarm clocks sell, I wonder why we have separate beds and separate bodies and separate hearts, because I don't know about you but I wonder if I am strong enough at all for anything, at all. My skin feels brittle and young and old, translucent and yielding, powerless, broken by innocent and not-so innocent eyes. My fingerprints are black and slick, and oh look, dear, look, I have pulled another eyelash out...It does not feel warm but I know better. What shall we wish for? I wish I knew what to wish but no, actually I wonder why we feel the need to wish at all. I wonder what the word "wish" even means. Isn't it the same as "dream", the same as "hope", same same same in its' passiveness and longing? I don't want to go on wishing on sooty salty warm eyelashes, not any more no not when my heart is burning to the frantic beat of alarm clocks ringing, spilling from our ears out of shut windows into closed-off nights. I wish for quiet. I wish I wish for innocent eyes. Please, love, I have a plan. Now we shall wish to keep our eyelashes where they belong, and trust in each other instead.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Self-Portrait

Self-portrait: My family reflected in my eye. Mixed- media. Displayed at the end of the School of the Museum of Fine Arts Pre-College Summer Program, 2009.

Worthy

The rain pools outside my window
Not so much a pool as a
Rushing current, raging.
In one ear and out the other,
A cascading waterfall in your
Honor.
The earth swallows the rain
Greedily, a lazy green giant
Calms the seas, controls the wind
Then treats himself, he is
Worthy.
Worthy is you in a word, or
Is it?
My heart swells in the rushing river
Your face winks in
My mind's eye
A cacophonous swell, rapid
Pounding in my ears.
You turn away, the giant quiets
The storm.
Rain trickles down
Follows me into the
Bottomless pool.

The Air is Alive

The air is alive
Tonight.
Can you feel it?
I know that you can, dear.
The air is alive
It pulses, a relentless dance.
Flows through the living blood
Shifts in the changing tide.
The air is alive
Tonight.
Close your eyes and truly listen
Listen.
Hear the birds call, hear the air flow, hear your
heartbeat.
My heartbeat.
Hear the pain of your neighbor.
Listen as the teardrops fall, silent, unnoticed to the

hot earth.
Can you hear it?
I know that you can, dear.
More importantly,
Will you change it?

Silken Feather

Silken feather
Flames flicker on your smooth surface
Whom do you fly for?
Flames are the wild.
Leap, dance, surrender.
Stars prophisise
Omens for the creatures
Of the night.
Silken feather,
Come my way.
Lend me your light, your
Liberty.
Bless the creatures of the night
In your independence day.
Silken feather,
See our painted faces turned
To the stars?
Float to the heavens on a moonbeam breeze
Send hope from those of us down
On our knees.
We are begging you
Please.

Creature of the Night

Creature of the night,
Your eyes call to me across the crowded room
Glowing, enticing
Promises of silver and gold, to be
Free.
Creature of the night,
When will we be alone?
Vermin of the earth clawing,
Grasping,
For your golden skin.
Creature of the night,
Say that you love me, once more.
Ignore the little men in white coats who
Pull your strings.
Creature of the night,
I'm fading now. Do you
See what you have done to me?
Lower your head from the light
Have sympathy for the devil
You have created.
Can you see me?

Stars

Thirteen brown steps lead down to a little opening. You can see it from the hallway on the second floor. On hot days I can just see two white curtains that the air conditioner twirls about. The light changes in the opening every hour so that if a person sat there all day they could feel the path of the sun. Wooden floors change their appearance with the atmosphere and season, and in the summer you can almost see your reflection. A grand piano sits just behind the opening. It was once played daily and music would fill the room and dance in the light. Now it sits still and silent, as if some important key were missing. In the darkness underneath the piano is a big flattened down pillow, and as the day leaves the light ripples out and away. I have sat on the cool wooden boards and watched the world breathe. I have learned, the window has taught me, that when the light fades away, I can still see the stars.

I miss you.

i miss you so much it hurts.
just wait, don't
say anything, don't
say anything,
that has always been a skill of yours anyway
you always know how to
speak with your eyes.
i miss you so much it hurts, the starlit place
i gave you in my past is
aching, is confused, your memory threatens
to leak from my young thoughts
like minutes out of your watch.
I miss you so much it hurts and
the saddest thing is that I
don't think you miss me. Now
dear, don't lie to me, save
your whispered assurances of
love of
connections of
hope because if you don't if you
whisper into my cold
waiting
ears then i
will have to hear you, will
have to love you and
you have filled my heart to a happy brim
as it is.
i miss you so much it hurts i
love you so much it aches
and the saddest thing is that i
don't think you miss me.

My Body Likes You

my body likes You.
it sounds goofy but
it's true- a look from
You and i am a
complete and utter
bumbling
dribbling
fool.
my skin has a mind of
it's own, a hot-blooded organism
without a conscience.
my cheeks flush a
hot sweet
strawberry jam red,
red like my twitchy
obvious
self-conscious
embarrassment, my
insecurity in your presence.
You are perfectly humble, lovely,
while i am perfectly
awkward.
my body likes You.
when You are near my
hands shake my
head swirls like
sweet cream in hot bitter coffee and
my knees feel prickly
and sugar salty sweet to the touch.
to your touch? well,
my knees and my
strawberry jam cheeks, my
heart hopes for your
Sunday morning scented touch because
my body likes You and
my heart honestly
completely
utterly
loves
You.
I'm going to grow up and live in a quiet forest and keep goats. I'll marry a mountain man and he will chop wood for the fire and have calloused hands, and I will darn his socks and write pages and pages and paint paintings and paintings. We will have a big colorful garden and a bird feeder and there will be trees everywhere. I will wear patched overalls and a straw hat, bare feet with a cool rolling river nearby. We will have a dog. We will be as poor as the dirt in our garden, but will not care, because the stars will be bright and the water will be clean and cool. Is it weird that that sounds heavenly to me? To be happy and quiet in that way? I am not planning on actually doing it right now, but it does sound pretty damn wonderful. (While I am writing this my lunch table is talking about prom. I have more in common with my goats, I think...)

Candles in Jam Jars


There is a table on the back porch. The table is set with candles in jam jars and pale blue hyacinth in dark vases. In the backyard, just behind the porch and the table and the candles in jam jars is a big green lake. The lake has white water lilies in it. They bob over the waves, little dancing spots of white touched by the distant candle light from the candles in the jam jars on the table on the porch. There is a tree with a tire swing swinging. A splintery old canoe waits patiently on the dark grass nearby(should anyone want to use it) In the summer there are fireflies, lightning bugs perfumed with white lilies and pale blue hyacinths that flit through the candle light from the candles in the jam jars. On the porch there are fuzzy old jazz records playing and the peepers peep to the night-fueled beat. The air smells like white lilies and pale blue hyacinth and the old rubber tire swing, like night and a chance of rain and wooden grassy canoes, like faded voices spilling from the records like promises and the light from the candles in the jam jars on the table on the porch.
It also smells like earthworms.
I wish you could see it...it is
truly
honestly
sensationally
unbelievably
undeniably
wonderfully
gorgeous.


art essay

Sam Pickett
Even This Title is Art

When I was younger and even wimpier than I am now my mom used to say “there is safety in numbers”. That nugget of wisdom is true in some scenarios. Being lost in a spooky place at night or battling mutant alien invaders, for example. Art museums are a whole different story. When one attends an art museum with others, the dynamic often shifts from a group of kind-hearted friends to a gaggle of critics with inferiority complexes. Art is one of those topics (like religion and politics) that is impossible to successfully argue about. Personally, I would no more discuss art in a museum than I would touch the paintings “to feel how thick the paint was” (as my grandmother does).Before dismissing any art as “bad”, it is important to be aware of the concept behind it.
For years “art” had been an exclusive term. Realism was the only acceptable style of art. Religious paintings, bowls of fruit, and naked people were the extent of a “real” artists’ subject choices. There was nothing surprising about art; nothing funny or scary or controversial. Frankly, it was boring. This sense of boredom naturally progressed into new “conceptual” artists breaking every rule and making up their own.
The first group of ground-breakers were the Impressionists. At first, prestigious art schools and critics refused their work and ridiculed their talent. They were the original “starving artists”, surviving on their belief in the value of their work (and little else). Today the Impressionists (and every new art movement to follow) are praised for moving art in a new direction and breaking “the mold”.
It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “Well-behaved women rarely make history”. Well, the same goes for artists. When artists like Jackson Pollock, Pablo Picasso, Wassily Kandinsky, and Salvador Dali first appeared they were exceptionally controversial. Their entangled paint splatters, great canvases of color, and choppy, dissected portraits were unlike anything the world had ever seen.
Mark Rothko is one of the original revolutionaries. His great colored canvases might appear pretty simplistic at first. But Rothko was intelligent and cultured. He was influenced by Nietzche’s The Birth of Tragedy, which inspired him to “want to relieve man of his spiritual emptiness”.His work was inspired by mythology, war, and dreams, and he chose to use “art as a tool of emotional and religious expression.”
One of Rothko’s notable contemporaries was Marcel Duchamp. Duchamp is one of my favorites - he had a fantastic rare ability to never take art (or himself) too seriously. Throughout his career Duchamp displayed “Fountain” (more commonly known as a urinal); a bottle rack marked with his signature, and a bicycle wheel mounted to a stool. Duchamp created “found art” from “nothing”. He believed in all that art never was and saw what it potentially could be.
Duchamp and the others paved the way for artists like Andy Warhol and Damien Hirst. Warhol cemented his status in American culture with pop-art prints that were relatable in their simultaneous depth and superficiality. Hirst, the richest living artist to date, is best known for “The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living”, a massive tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde.
If we are honest with ourselves, though, doesn’t abstract art just look like squiggles? In the end a urinal is really just a urinal and a dead shark is just a dead shark. Everybody and their grandmother has a bicycle, and access to paint, and urinals can be unhooked from walls pretty easily. So then why do many of us praise artists who slap price tags on ordinary objects and call them art? How are people supposed to look at paint splatters and feel moved? And where did Hirst find that gigantic dead tiger shark, anyway? Apologies for the forthcoming corny pun, but isn’t there something fishy about this whole situation?
According to Robert Hughes, a prominent Australian art critic, Damien Hirst’s works are “absurd” and “tacky commodities.” Hughes has said that commercial pieces with large price tags mean “art as a spectacle loses its’ meaning”. Hirst’s piece “For the Love of God” (a platinum, diamond-encrusted skull) sold for $100 million dollars in cash. And earlier, back in 1917, the Society of Independent Artists rejected Duchamp’s “Fountain” because it “was not art.” I think in both cases the artists didn’t mean that a urinal or skull were art by themselves. Part of the beauty of art is it’s ability to be more of an idea than a concrete work.
I suppose it is a part of human nature to criticize. We criticize each other, we criticize ourselves, music, TV, laundry detergent, pretty much everything. But I have never understood why some people criticize art. Art is one of the pure, free things in this world. Art is its’ own world; an immortal organism that is all encompassing in its’ depth and relevance. “Conceptual” art gives the artist personal freedom, but more importantly it gives the viewer a personal invitation into the piece. What more do people want? I don’t know, I don’t have the answer…but I do know as surely as I know my own name that the work of Rothko, and Duchamp, and Hirst IS art. So, in the end maybe all I really have to offer is this piece of advice (for those who value their sanity): Consider very, very wisely who you visit an art museum with. For my part, I will always prefer to go alone.

Smoking


It's probably politically incorrect to say this, but I think smoking is really beautiful. Forgetting about the black lungs and poison for a second, there is something so unexplainably glamorous and magical about it. The burst of flame as the cigarette is lit, the smoke that rises slowly easy conversation up and into the atmosphere, the smell of tobacco that is at once bristly and comforting. I know smoking is bad for you, it will kill you, or so I've been taught...But also there are slender cigarette holders and velvet gloves and Johnny Depp chain-smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. There are mint-favored cigarettes and the little cardboard boxes, blue caterpillar smoke rings and smoke-flavored kisses. I don't think I will ever smoke (because I have an addictive personality, for one), but there is something intoxicating about it.

I Want to Taste the Rain


I want
to taste the rain.
I want
to capture it in sun-washed jars
and store them in fields of grass
that whisper gaily,
like forgotten winds into the ears
of slender trees.
I want to taste the rain
that falls from gray
soft
skies;
like apologies
from tender lips
against the salty cheek
of cracked
black
tar.
I want to taste the rain,
to watch it fall
through the air and
find salvation in the part of my hair,
in the lingering palms of my dreams and
in the insatiable scent of your skin.
I want to taste your skin
(even more so than the rain),
because skin can give
and warm
and rise
while rain can merely
fall.

Golden Bird


Golden bird,
For whom do you preen?
Your beak the color of
Palest alabaster
Your cheeks as red
As candied apples.
Golden bird,
When you soar above the sea,
Do you think of me?
Count the hours, minutes, seconds...?
Golden bird,
For whom do you fly?
I see now it would be a crime
To hide you away,
In your prime.
Golden bird,
Fly beyond the pale, to the sun.
Promise to remember, when
Your adventure is through,
The one who remains, dreaming
Of you.

We Are the Brainwashed Generation


We are the brainwashed generation
Living in a gilded Apple, actually
Not so much living as
Breathing, for we have not yet reached that point, sir.
Our hands have evolved into intelligent electronics, they
Shed their skin every week or two.
Beeps lights bells whistles supplement
Emotion.
We are the brainwashed generation, our minds
Computer screens, magazines, TV screens, dying greens and what,
What,
Kindles?
We are the brainwashed generation, a
Collective herd of Red Bulls, tweeting birds, vacant photo frames.
Connected, connected, oh but are we honestly?
Let us fill our mouths with honey, our hearts with hope, our eyes with light,
Light turned fluorescent, too bad the path was covered over.
Clear the leaves away, change the landscape, change the future, we still can, you know.
At least, at least,
That is what I have been told.
We are the brainwashed generation, our minds scrubbed with unclean water.
A variety of misguided escapists,
Unsure which direction to go, face the “Call of Duty,” oh, but wait, have I,
Have we gone too far?
We are the brainwashed generation, floating
As the current rolls on, blissfully unaware of our own
Premature brainwashing.

Essence of Long Beach


Summertime escape for the world,
Sandcastle landlord, braider of sea weed,
Builder of friendships and creator of memories;
Salty, accepting, uncontainable,
Plymouth's own Long Beach:

They tell me you are forgotten and I believe them, for I have walked your desolate beaches in the watchful company of the gulls and the shells.
They tell me you are lonely, and I understand them, for the scent of sunblock has long faded into memory.
They tell me you are inhospitable and I cannot contradict them, for with each step forward my footsteps are wiped clean behind me.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who abandon this my playground, and I hand them back their unfaithfulness and say to them:
Come and show me another beach with faithful tide pulsing, guided by the moon and protected by the stars,
so complete in its' long-awaited freedom.
Roaring in the measured nights and laughing in the crisp days,
Coming into its' own, a peaceful giant, amid the seaweed and the sand and the cold.

Wild as a sandstorm consuming itself in whirls,
Beautiful as any man or beast ever created,
Dancing,
Singing,
Leaping,
Rising,
Creating, destroying, recreating,
Through the frost, sand cupped in his hands, laughing with polished jaws wide open.
Under the terrible abandonment of fair-weather fans surviving as a true fighter would,
Surviving even as one who has been deserted season after season,
Giggling and surviving for through his great heart hums the pulse of the secrets, and in his hard-packed sand lies the memories of the world and the men and the creatures,
Surviving.
Surviving through the rain, and the wind, and the snow of
the world, laughing, roaring, free, happy to be
Summertime escape for the world,
Sandcastle landlord, braider of sea weed,
Builder of friendships and creator of memories.

Well hello there!

Hey! I'm Sam Pickett and if you are reading this right now, my spidey senses tell me you must have found my blog. Well done. I made this blog with the intention of keeping all of my poems, stories, paintings, illustrations, and rambles in one place. Mhmm, yep.