Ariela Contreras

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  List Poem ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

11/09

The Rotten Apple or The Big Rotten Apple

Here, it’s okay, take a bite,
And experience the crisp “hustle and bustle of the city”;
For nothing is forbidden anymore.

Caution, be aware: with streets colored yellow you may become dizzy
Deafening obnoxious honks, clamor, and chaos
Have already begun to plague the city.

Carrying the mentality of how the city can “make you or break you”,
The heads of millions are bobbing up and down, to where they need to go
As countless altitudinous skyscrapers stand far from low.

Consider this town over-ripened, peeling and heavily polluted;
The stench of dirty rainwater, litter, and sewage.

From the on street vendors with sauerkraut, hot dogs and pretzels
To the lavish cheesecakes topped with crumbly streusels.

This concrete jungle,
Like that of the rambunctious Central Park Zoo,
We must protect.
And to make healthy once again; able grow a new skin.

Immensely illuminated, Times Square lay in its core
The flashy and vivid lights can brighten up the world.

From sold out performances at Radio City
To everlasting entertainment at The Apollo.

Exclusive items are brought to life in the Fashion District
The couture garments reeking with insane prices.

Luminously constructed,
Lie the Empire State Building, GW and Brooklyn Bridge
In their own way, all possess importance to the metropolis;
As does Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

From infamously standing to gone in seconds,
The Twin Towers tragically became Ground Zero
Post 9-11, the city has blossomed,
Here, “Big Breaks” are made, opportunities are knocking,
And the greatest dreams are captured.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Free Verse ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Where I’m From

I’m from her womb to an incubator;
from doctor’s scared that I might die.
I’m from landing my 1st job at 3 months;
from photo shoots to TV to magazines.
I’m from being too curious;
from my room to an ambulance within minutes.
From being bullied by that thing mommy calls “your little sis”;
I’m from protecting that same bully.

I’m from arroz con pollo y gandules;
from polleras twirling in the streets.
I’m from quinceañeras;
celebrating womanhood.
I’m from an immigrant who calls me “mija”;
from a nutty and caring mother.
I’m from the garden grown between New York & PA;
where it’s safer to stay indoors than leave your house.
I’m from a million of divorce conversations;
from a line of broken homes.
I’m from the underdogs who made it big;
who never gave in, never let their past get in their way.
I’m from the three grandparents I’ve never met;
pictures are all i go by.

I’m from getting to know the cousins to well;
from P.E.C. to Lee Avenue.
I’m from Lee Avenue to Smoketown Elementary;
from a new life with different goals and aspects.
Testimony is what I behold;
no shame in speaking his word.
I’m from middle class to lower and back again;
from appreciating what’s already been provided.

I’m from “I’m proud of you” and “You’re gonna make it”;
her star is what she calls me.
I’m from trying my best and giving my all;
failing, unsuccessful, insufficient    not in my vocab.
Having a warm heart is all I know;
never taught the opposite.
From laughter and happiness;
you catching me otherwise    won’t happen.
Still the same girl throughout the years;
only thing changed is my view of the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Skeltonic Verse ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


December 24th

As the snow lie upon the ground,
I wonder where the storm is bound.
Darkness has fallen, the sun is down,
The birds in hiding, the rabbits in holes;
Snow-covered in the lawn, lie two trolls.

Footprints, angels and men.
Carrot for a nose, he’s my friend.
Everlasting fun, promised not to end;
It’s always real and never pretend.

Santa and friends with golden bells,
Milk and cookies, what an inticing smell.
Awake to a thump, down the chimney he fell.
Toys and such he began to expell.
Frightened by Shiloh, he let out a yell,
But covered his mouth, so you couldn’t tell.

“Up, up, and away!”
He left for another day
Next year he’ll return,
Better gifts I’ll yearn;
But ’till then, best be good!,
‘Cuz he’s a-makin’ that list!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Ars Poetica ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Climb aboard the basket and let it drift you along the horizon
Mounting upon this experience, now implying your interest
The nitrous oxide replaced with an abundance of expressions
But overblow the latex and the impact is disguised

Possesses enough buoyancy to interest its rider
A busker’s modelling, expelling its twists and turns
Progressively lethargic and dense
Weightless and timeless
Coasting freely,
Expressed with few limitations

Each current persuading its rider in its own direction
Each one incomparably structured
Every stripe colored differently
Some adjectives, some verbs, even similes
All of which are tightly strung together
Like snowflakes, no two are alike

Latching onto an uncanny journey
Each time like opening Pandora’s box

The opaque color forcing its rider to seek between the clouds
Its altitude as distant as its saga
Deeply indulging one into their own orbicular world
Sharing the same properties of a flowing river
Providing something of importance, as trees supply oxygen

A downpour of tear-shaped ideas can deflate its influence
The intensified words and phrases piercing through the nylon

Recognized at an array of celebrations
Sought for comfort and happiness
Solicited to those in need of fulfillment

It can take you many places, maybe a stroll down memory lane
Near the climax the tension is at a mountain’s peak
Bobbing blissfully to an infinite height, forever flying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  Micro Fiction ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


1Decision

“Yeah, uh I just saw the boy described on the television with a blue scooter and a middle aged white male. The guy is driving a white van, but I couldn’t make out the plate.” It’s been forty-eight hours since the disappearance of the young boy. The man on the case, Chief Sam, in his office, submerged himself into the newly given details of the wanted man’s vehicle description, name, record, and last location. Pondering hard, the Chief wondered how to capture a menace with a scarce amount of information. And piecing together the man’s reason; he couldn’t come to conclusions with; wondering what fulfillment he could possibly want.

Three days gone, no new clues, no leads, a dead end. At the boy’s residence, a call comes in around dusk. With policemen stationed within the home, phone tapped, Karen, the boy’s mother, simultaneously, hesitantly and anxiously, answered the phone. “Hello?” The man wanted a ransom of $50,000 and to meet her, alone, behind the bleachers at the county park at nine p.m. On her knees, she pleaded, “What am I to do? Where am I going to get all this money? All I want is my son!”

Chief Sam encouraged his men to gear up, get ready to ship out, and to fill the targeted area. With only one thing holding her back, Karen grabbed the Chief’s arm. He refused to give in. It’d be a decision she’d spend the rest of her life thanking him for.