Rachel’s Thoughts: My First Rare Steak

I was going to use this for a creative sketch declamation, but wasn’t sure if it quite fit the guidelines. So.

Many, many, many moons ago, I had my first rare steak.

Malevolently. That was how it felt like the steak was staring at me. It was the kind of steak that had probably sat on someone nice in a previous life. I had ordered my bloody slab of cow medium to well done, and this was just so…not. I mean, the edges were singed and all, but I prefer my food dead, thank you very much.

Anyway, there it was, sitting on my plate like it owned the place. The cook had refused to take it back, jabbering something in Dutch about the World Cup. Apparently Holland was playing Spain and, being smack-dab in the middle of Amsterdam, he didn’t feel obliged to provide customer satisfaction on such an important night. Evidently he wasn’t concerned about customer safety, either, because this was precisely the sort of steak that might at any moment pull a Calvin-and-Hobbes move and attack me with my own fork. My personal theory was that he too was intimidated by the gimlet eye of the beastly thing, and was secretly chortling about it back in the kitchen. And still the steak just sat there oozing blood, defying me, practically daring me to try to eat it.

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Rachel’s Thoughts: Ode

Due to various assorted confusing misunderstandings and hectic end-of-senior-year stuff, I had to write two final stanzas for this Ode. Odes are supposed to be five verses, each with fourteen lines. This one is six verses, but the sixth one can be used in place of the fifth one (hence some repetition). 🙂

To the Sea:

This is not my image: courtesy of the Internet.

O deepest Sea, beneath thy stormy eye

Lies all the wealth the bounteous earth commands;

Above thy foam the flocking seabirds fly.

Your gleaming spray is tossed by playful hands,

And pearls encrust thy skeleton sublime;

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Rachel’s Thoughts: Poem #3

My first attempt at writing a poem in Iambic Pentameter, which means five accented syllables per line.

 

The boy stood strong and tall, some six-foot two,

With steady gaze of gold-flecked green and blue.

So strange the lights that glimmered there, of mirth

And sorrow, fearless courage; words of worth

Could come any time, decide all doubts that may

Bewilder those who at him gaze. But play

He can, with ease, for he has not yet known

But eight-and-ten rotations ‘round heat’s throne.

His hands can harness lightning, catch it, tame

It, call to do his bidding. He alone it’s Name

Can speak, and ‘round him now it casts a glow

That shines in golden lights, which bright as snow

In darkness, dart in locks untamed which like

A lion’s strain to ‘scape his head and spike

In odd, unusual ways. His brown, worn cloak,

All hemmed with gold, like Falls’s revenge on OAK

His trade belies and fails to hide his power.

He stands, a hero, so young, in youth’s fresh flower.