Poetry
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I Never Speak in the Absolute
Iris Rhyee When I think of myself I can only imagine How the wind tries to break a bullet. I imagine static betweens songs, The buzzing and breaking between sounds. I find solace in silence Like I feel the teeth in my mouth. I think of Saint Agatha rolling in fire, Her red veil held her face through the flames. Even in the ash, she lived and was loved. I fear I ignited my red veil as soon as my breath Pressed past my teeth. I fear I will live longer than I can be loved. So I turn my words into knives I rip and cut and tear and bleed Until my body, a blade, becomes Only a breath in the night. I am the static that never stops To the Reader/True Creativity
Aaron Femia Why are you reading this? Did you choose it? Was it in your path? If you did choose to read this poem why? Was it the title? Was it my name? Was it curiosity? Why am I writing this? Is it for the sake of writing? Is it for my own benefit? Do I want some praise some validation some laurels to rest upon Or could it truly be creative act? Is it still creative if the goal is not just to create but to be recognized for creating? Is it better to create with a selfish motivation or to not create at all? And you if you are still reading did you get what you expected? Was it worth your time? Was it worth mine? It took less than twenty minutes to write and probably three to read I hope it was not a waste I know there is no right reason to write no wrong reason to read but if this is correct is creative is connected to more than just my ego then why did I just spend 181 words (plus the title) talking about myself? Checking in Before I Leave
Logan Domineck I wanted to write something long Some mysterious and deep song But I found myself writing Hands full of lightning But alas, something was wrong A lot has changed, you see I’m not who I used to be I’m sure you aren’t either I stopped for a breather And suddenly I’m no longer me Changes come on us quickly Sometimes they fill me with glee Others, they leave me in fear Like there’s something in the air That makes me stomach go all rumbly I don’t know what’s changed My life’s been rearranged But days keep passing through So I wish good luck to you Finding the future that’s been enchained Limericks work well enough Full of mysterious, inscrutable stuff But I find myself employing Tactics that are quite annoying Like limericks that end the wrong way I'm fine
A.D.D. I’m ok I’m good Look I’m Smiling :) I want to die I’m fiiiiine I’m working Sorry, I’m not hungry I’m ok Don’t worry Please don’t hate me I’m fine :) I’m just tired I don’t care I’m ok I’m trying my best I’m so numb these days I am f i n e I am F(iguring out how to look happy) I(n a state of constant numbness) N(ot able to keep fighting) E(nough? No..no I’m not) Yeah, I’m fine : ) I’ve never been one to cry.
Megan Hiller I mean, I do cry a lot. I cry over little things. I cry when I’m overwhelmed. So, yes, I cry. I just have one thing. I never cry in front of anybody. So that’s what I did. I didn’t cry. “It’s okay to cry” My mom said, “It’s okay to be sad” “I’m fine” I said. I. Don’t. Cry. “Don’t lie, you cry over little things. Over everything.” I am fine. I didn’t cry. Not on the bus ride. Sitting next to my best friend, looking out the window. Silent. Lost in my thoughts. My memories. Not at school. Walking like I was in a fever dream. Nobody noticed. I remember. It was a half day. My friends finally noticed. I told them. I. Didn’t. Cry. They said their sorries. I said I was fine. I. Didn’t. Cry. Not until I got home. When I went into the bathroom. Shut the door. Slid down onto the floor. Back against the wall. And sobbed. Still to this day. Nobody knows. That. I. Cried. I still cry. My bathroom has become my crying place. Back against the wall. Tears fall on the floor. I cry. Nobody ever knows. Nobody will ever know. I cry. Tears dried. I fix my makeup. Mascara reapplied. Eyeliner fixed. I walk out looking fine. Put my walls back up Like armor. I never show emotion. All the sadness I hold like a chasm in my stomach. Nobody will ever know. How I sobbed over my grandfather. How he was cancer free yet still died. How I never got to say goodbye. How he’ll never see me graduate. High school. College. Marriage. Nothing. They think I am strong but I am weak. How I sobbed over the pony I used to ride when I was little. When we had to put him down. I watched him fall to the ground. The light going out of his eyes. I cried. How I cried when I felt like my grades weren’t good enough. Crying over my one B. How I still cry over my grades. And the overwhelming pressure to always be better on my shoulders. I have to be perfect. How I still cry over my grandfather. How so many things remind me of him. Waffles. That morning he let us have vanilla ice cream on our waffles for breakfast. Paper airplanes. We used to sit in the living room and throw them back and forth across the room. writing little messages on them, like I love you. Snowmobiling. Riding up to camp on the back of the dogsled. Cooking pink hotdogs in the cabin. Snowball fights. I haven’t had ice cream on waffles for breakfast since. I haven’t thrown a paper airplane since. I haven’t ridden a snowmobile since. I don’t think I’ve ever fully been okay, fully been whole, since. I still cry. Philly Tonk and Track
Kaelen Linke So it goes, or rather It goes so that I may go Where I know not Past the worn windows of the chugging beast Lies a sea of fluorescence and treachery All the same really I sit no further from myself than I do the name tag in the window seat I dare not disturb their perfection I continue on my odyssey Stations fester in excess Beckoning all but accepting none Save for an old geezer offering eternity in the form of a mint Singing his whims into ether There is no agency here No speakeasy for the adventurous Rather a shipwreck pin balling souls to souls In Hellenistic design I scoff But in truth, I speak with Caesar Hallowed be thy name In Brutus once again I sit idly Passing the knives around For a coup cemented in billboards and bastions If I were a blind man, Should I look the other way? Perhaps when Philly comes along And makes a mess of things to clear my head Man’s best puzzle piece Kaelen Linke I think it’s high time for a feast Don’t you? And sand down those jagged edges while You’re at it A banquet hall would be most appropriate Don’t you think? Why won’t you leave me alone and wither away Don’t you think at all? Oh, you’re sweet as silk my boy good boy Don’t you think at last it’s time? For us to leave Twilight is close but you can keep up surely Won’t you? What’s that in your mouth and so on Doesn’t the sun feel nice? You’re an edge piece clearly Who sanded down your sides? I digress Won’t you stay? An eternity in a little longer Look at how they’ve groomed you Spotless in a world of dots You by my side to ward off evil Won’t you stay till there is none? You the trusty sidekick and me and who else Who else but you and me and Would you join us for the banquet? My friend here seems to fancy you Let me get you a table and our finest grim reaper Aged XX The party just started a raincheck is in bad taste Ah, a bad taste in my mouth It seems you were stood up, Death Have a chat with my friend He’s sweet as silk he is Love is Love
Monty Gomes Whenever I forget, You always remind me, You’re the only one, truly, The first and the last, To make my heart and mind, Soar and flutter, Like the wings of a dove, Like tranquility and love obligated itself to be, In verse, in melodies, Those wings lift me, Free me from my burdening shackles of thought, And keep me focused, and those same wings, Make me yearn, reach out For you to take that same, weightless flight with me, The gentlest of swirls, With my dainty finger, On your milk chocolate back, As we lovingly embrace, And make ourselves shiver, laugh, And bask in the ecstasy Aphrodite has bestowed on us. To remind us, That love should be simple, But thought of and held tenderly, Swaddled like the precious thing love can conceive, Be it a new life, Or a new solace, a trust, a remedy, I shall never dare toss such a relic aside, Because you, and so many others, are a part of, That glorious, roségold miracle, A thornless rose, immutable yet ephemeral, Shan’t be juxtaposed against man or women, But all walks of life, all sui generis, All miraculous upon humanity, If I must march to war, in arms, to fight for such, I’ll go unflinching in those trenches, Like men decades before me, languishing for their Helen of Sparta, To be able to silently retire unto my sanctuary, Your arms, your smile, your voice, And slumber without unease, Knowing that inalienable fact, One we so boldly epitomize. What do you do
Anonymous What do you do, when a trip you planned, with one person, ends with just you on that plane? How do you proceed, hovering in the air, humbled with the loneliness, put on you by that person, the person meant to be your person? Do you, desperately stay seated in wait of them, drift off into despair but continue on, or simply jump ship. They abandoned first, why not follow their choices and leave it all behind. The trip stays reserved forever though, in case they return, in case the two of you decide the trip was worthwhile once again, but not today. In the meantime, what do you do? |
vu
Jocelyn MacDonough in my dreams i see you, you who has long woken up i keep my eyes closed, still dreaming. your brand new converse, stark white against the asphalt, next to mine. your faded blue jeans freshly ironed, lines pressed smooth, carefully cuffed. your laugh as you run, weaving, ducking, footsteps thudding turn, you look, pivot hand meeting shoulder tag your smile, emotions laid bare, words painted lilac smooth and slick without the cloying-sticky-sweet. you don’t have to try to be likeable, you didn’t for me. you dream of owning a car, something old and romantic an old volkswagen beetle, you say, hands swinging, in lavender or mint green, or maybe the one from your favorite movie. i listen. spring; you shoot baskets in your yard practice your free throws, shoot and miss; it doesn’t matter because you you laugh, while i i watch from the ground: you who flies above me. to me, divine, but too human to be anything more. your eyes, shining bright in determination one, a shade greener than brown. i think, how lucky, to stand next to you, even for just a moment. june; your new pair of chucks pristine next to m in e, in mint green your favorite color: like your eyes but better, a hint of blue like the ocean the sky but better, color of cake pops, cupcakes, pastels that you like but better. mine: is mint green. your hand in mine, clasped tightly as we wait, all these things that i remember i now see: a pair of cutoff jeans, embroidery patch on the pocket, deja i miss, by miles by years by inches by seconds, you, you who made me somebody how many more days until i no longer remember what made you you? presque august; i wonder, do you still think of me? a caught zipper, a stutter, a pause or do your eyes slide right past me? i look at you, i see your smile your eyes your voice puzzle pieces worn away, no longer woven together jamais vu spring
Jocelyn MacDonough spring; you sit, grass stains on denim, dirt on your brand new boots. you rip stems by their roots from the ground, bob your head to music from the phone you snuck outside. you look for clovers, count leaves even though you know you won’t find four. under the shade, at the end of the pavement here, we convened lazily rolled a ball around, really just talking about nothing i watch: you smile, braiding stems together, flower crown blooming in your lap you make secrets sprout and tear them from my heart laying them bare to the sun, braiding them together to create an image of me. in return, you give: whispered confessions like the melted beams of the sunlight we hide from. we wait in line for face paint, popsicles melting under the sun. you emerge, swirling flowers climbing up the side of your face pink and white petals blossoming against your skin. sitting on a blanket in the grass, twirling a flower between your fingers i pause. remember this moment: under the sun, eating lunch, one last time. i doodle your hand, attempt to commit you to memory. Introspection
Monty Gomes Why do I want to be a boy? “I don’t know," I said to myself, As hot water pattered down my bare skin, A pale, pinkish, cream against all shades of white, “I can’t remember… No, wait, I think I do, I was born a girl, And I’ve lived, and looked down, And watched these changes, Of my mind, my body, and others, and now, I don’t want to be anything that I’ve been taught to be.” Thoughts churned in my head, Perspectives twisted and contorted my face, As I couldn’t stop this train from stopping, “This could be from what scars me, Nothing has felt right all these years, Would this change, if all these sickly wounds were mended? That’s what they tell me, Silently through their coats of sacrilegious sugar, Through prayer even, That this is a devious illness, even if it’s plagued me for years.” I sigh to myself as I hang my head low, “This could easily just be a passing storm, nothing that will matter later.” I couldn’t look at myself the same, nothing feels right, and it’s been years, it’s only been two years, And all this conflict could be nothing about “being." I look to myself with a deathly anguish, “I don’t want to be the way I am, Not the ways I do when the mirror looks back, Not in the ways that hurt me like this. Am I even being realistic? I could never be all the ways I want to be.” I could do nothing, But caress the tears off my cheek, To hold it as I gazed into my eyes, To tell myself soft comforts, Comforts only I could resonate with, While I let myself weep in my very arms. My Mother Hits a Pothole
Anonymous My mother hits a pothole. At the dawn of every morning, while driving me to school. Shouldn't she be watching the road? She's certainly not watching me. But I'm watching her. Waiting. For her to mess up again. So I can defend myself. In our next argument of my mess ups. Shouldn't be long now. Waiting. For the next imperfection in the road. Wondering. How she'll handle it. What if she can't ignore it? Hitting potholes is becoming a habit of my mother. Constantly making mistakes without recognition later. I'm starting to wonder if I hate her. For being a mother. My habits she must smother. ''Don't bite your nails Alexis," ''Don't bounce your leg Alexis,'' ''Quit touching your hair Alexis." Wondering. If she really thinks I care About my nails and my hair. I do, I swear. But I've hit a pothole. One that can't just be driven over. Signal Mirror Over the shoulder GO! ''You forgot to check your mirror before looking over your shoulder Alexis." I am always looking in the mirror, I HATE mirrors. My reflection of which I must reflect upon at dawn. Waiting. For the day where I finally stop looking over my shoulder. Only to see my shadow, disfigured from the pothole. Wondering. Why she still thinks I'm one worth following. Tribute to the One Who Holds the Umbrella
Dan Lyubchik denial Pale little boy, are you shaking? the wall of falling snow blinds him, set against his grey sky. the wind flows through his ears. numbs his hands So why won’t you come outside with us? Feel the warm sun against your face, burning you up? Can’t you see it’s best for you? the boy wanders blindly, trying to escape the heightening blizzard. he finds a thick oak tree to sit under, trying to shield himself from the storm. he continues to shiver anger I’m cold— he’s cold. his back is turning sore, sat against the tree’s wrinkles. the sunlight has gone away. no ray of moonlight can manage its way through the snow, thick snow suspended by the wind, howling winds echoing alone in the otherwise silent night I can’t see anything. scattered thoughts sound throughout his head, muffled, barely wrestling past the beating wind - Is anyone coming to help me? Come on, I’m scared he’ll die here, all alone! What will I do? “Come on, come out of your room. We’ve been knocking for hours.” you cannot win against the earth; everything happens for a reason. Please, somebody! Is anybody here? bargaining a thin snow has finished thawing, casts a mist across a wide green plain strange girl stumbles upon a thick oak tree, too weak to blossom, a single chrysanthemum blooming on the ground below. this time she is stood only for a moment and she continues on walking. Why do you sound the way you do? tired from running, breath heavy from her arguments before, she leans down to pick up a clover, long skirt dampened by the dew on the grass why do I sound the way I do? teary eyes face the three symmetrical leaves and the clover falls to the ground, onto a trail of heavy footsteps leading away from the city depression but the oak tree, with the single chrysanthemum - a strange sight, still familiar to me, thins and sags as seasons pass, gone unnoticed by most in the world. We miss you, boy. What happened? if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? beaming sun just above the horizon makes dark silhouettes from rows of palm trees. light beams down onto me, unbothered by the rain, onto a field of bright orange poppies in which i lay, shielded by your thin umbrella. Set me where as the sun doth parch the green, Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice; acceptance Built in best friend :)
Alexandra Belliveau Walking around passing all the cages one after another Wait! Stop! There he is the one with the yellow fur I used to say 8 month old little pup he's the one, I told my mom can we get him?? I begged let's come back with the whole family my mom said the next day… Running around laughs and smiles coming from our mouths my parents looked at each other he’s ours from that day forward I had a built in best friend a friend that would love me no matter what well…. Only if I gave him treats and scratches but that's besides the point Summer time was the best a H U G E yard to play in going on walks to get ice cream he was a happy boy he lit up my life when i was sad a hug from my boy made everything better June 19, 2022 second worst day of my life Father's day My dad was bringing us to my mom's to celebrate Father's day with my stepdad we got there around 6 I started to head upstairs when my mom asked me to stay downstairs The air was heavy the air in the room had the weight of sadness on its shoulders dark, blue, and cold We gathered around them watching their faces their faces grew with sadness my mom glanced over at Bailey looked at me and the moment she opened her mouth I knew what she was gonna say “we have to put Bailey down” Before she could get the words out I dropped to the floor tears s t r e a m i n g down my face my face in my hands the ground is falling beneath me and there’s nothing to grab on to voices echoing in and out my vision blurred from my tears this isn’t real, it can’t be no no no no no trying to breathe the air suddenly, there was no air it was gone I couldn't breathe running upstairs I sat there and cried and cried and cried and cried until my eyes were as dry as the Sahara Desert I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore I cried myself to sleep that night The next morning I woke up last night's tears staining my face my eyes and cheeks red and puffy like a balloon June 21, 2022 the worst day of my life first day of summer - his favorite we were all sitting outside when the lady came, I hated that lady - only because I knew what she was here for, she explained the whole process after we said our goodbyes she started I sat there with his head in my hands and watched his chest rise and fall one last time his eyes shut his ears went cold and his head heavy in my hands he was gone my best friend gone Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or your that skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? But maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. The Devil and I
Hind Mustafa The burdens of my mind pulse within, the Devil breathing within my skin And I shove him down Down DOWN (click link for poem in its entirety) Passion
Monty Gomes I will answer with anything but silence, I will scream with a perilous defiance, right in the faces of anyone who deny this, Explosive euphoric moment, Cooped up dearly in my heart, To erupt out as my passionate soul, I will answer with nothing but silence, And let it be a roaring diligence, Right in the faces of anyone who sees, Any of this as an inhuman experience, Any who deface my very conscience, And its hymn in vanity of their own. I will answer with anything but silence, I will answer with everything that screams “I will be your endless, righteous passion”, Right under my ear to me. |
The Seen vs The Unseen
Lily Davidson
The side they see:
You start to feel hot,
Like a heat wave hit you,
Dizzy,
Sick,
You start to shake,
Your lungs stop wanting to breathe,
Like you're being choked,
Your heart feels like it stopped,
Like it’s being compressed until it can’t beat anymore,
You just want to get out of your skin and walk around,
Or become invisible.
The real side they don’t see:
You walk into a room,
And you feel like all eyes are on you,
Waiting for you to mess up,
You worry what they are thinking,
But the truth is, they aren’t thinking anything,
It’s all in your head.
You open your mouth,
And you worry what will come out,
How will you sound?
Scatchy?
Loud?
Quiet?
Will it make sense?
Will people think you’re weird?
But the truth is, they won’t think anything,
It’s all in your head.
You get asked a question,
But you worry that you are being timed,
Timed to answer,
If you don’t answer fast enough they will think you’re dumb,
You complicate the simplest of questions,
To the point you don’t understand it anymore,
But the truth is, it’s simple,
It’s all in your head.
You go over past conversations in your head,
Like a broken record,
Just repeating the same thing over,
And over,
And over,
Worrying about what they thought of you,
What they still think of you,
Whether you sounded dumb, smart, rude, funny,
You won’t leave it alone until you can’t take it anymore,
You feel like your head is going to explode,
But the truth is, they aren’t thinking about it anymore,
It’s all in your head.
You worry about the future,
Will you be successful?
Will you pass your classes?
Will colleges accept you?
Will you find someone who really loves you?
So many questions that you don’t have an answer to right now,
And won’t until they happen,
But the truth is, it’ll all turn out fine,
It’s all in your head.
This is the side of anxiety nobody sees,
The side people won’t allow you to see,
Because they worry what people will think of them,
But the truth is, they don’t think anything,
They think how strong you must be to deal with all things,
Thoughts,
Ideas,
It’s all in your head.
Lily Davidson
The side they see:
You start to feel hot,
Like a heat wave hit you,
Dizzy,
Sick,
You start to shake,
Your lungs stop wanting to breathe,
Like you're being choked,
Your heart feels like it stopped,
Like it’s being compressed until it can’t beat anymore,
You just want to get out of your skin and walk around,
Or become invisible.
The real side they don’t see:
You walk into a room,
And you feel like all eyes are on you,
Waiting for you to mess up,
You worry what they are thinking,
But the truth is, they aren’t thinking anything,
It’s all in your head.
You open your mouth,
And you worry what will come out,
How will you sound?
Scatchy?
Loud?
Quiet?
Will it make sense?
Will people think you’re weird?
But the truth is, they won’t think anything,
It’s all in your head.
You get asked a question,
But you worry that you are being timed,
Timed to answer,
If you don’t answer fast enough they will think you’re dumb,
You complicate the simplest of questions,
To the point you don’t understand it anymore,
But the truth is, it’s simple,
It’s all in your head.
You go over past conversations in your head,
Like a broken record,
Just repeating the same thing over,
And over,
And over,
Worrying about what they thought of you,
What they still think of you,
Whether you sounded dumb, smart, rude, funny,
You won’t leave it alone until you can’t take it anymore,
You feel like your head is going to explode,
But the truth is, they aren’t thinking about it anymore,
It’s all in your head.
You worry about the future,
Will you be successful?
Will you pass your classes?
Will colleges accept you?
Will you find someone who really loves you?
So many questions that you don’t have an answer to right now,
And won’t until they happen,
But the truth is, it’ll all turn out fine,
It’s all in your head.
This is the side of anxiety nobody sees,
The side people won’t allow you to see,
Because they worry what people will think of them,
But the truth is, they don’t think anything,
They think how strong you must be to deal with all things,
Thoughts,
Ideas,
It’s all in your head.
antiquarian
elly hume
beneath the satin stars
there lies an empty heart in hand
blessed by the sacred Earth,
Mother Gaea traps the scars of Uranus and Kronos
behind her gentle breeze and beating heart.
but look behind her, not at her face.
she presents beauty and is the model for those with hungry eyes
forever their muse, stomach and mind always willing to consume
create art with steady hands and heavy souls,
taking tormented memories and morphing them into
something of strange beauty.
yet the Earth screams, and the womb cries,
as glorious yet torchered sons march towards death,
those of soil and flesh.
the roots of thy ancient Greeks tear at the floor of democracy,
Gaea screams and the Council floor splits down the middle,
forcing the sides in two.
(not that they were conjoined in the first place,
despite the intention of their creation)
so the wars fought past, the leaders who met a untimely death
roll in their graves at those who call themselves modern.
the great Mother grows gray,
grows evermore draped in a frosty death
as the hearts of her inhabitants freeze ever so slowly.
how dare we argue and reduce those who just want to make a change?
those who try to say something, say anything,
rather than sit in the silence
and let the dark swallow them whole.
what is the true meaning behind our great concert, if not for nothing beyond capital?
no one is seen for who they truly are,
seen for but a number.
how does one blaze a path of their own,
when they have to consider how they’ll survive?
they sacrifice a passion or
choose something only for the ability of the means.
what is the definition of being truly happy then, if they must think first
whether or not
they will be able to live
doing what they love.
so while the green dies, the natural green,
the other green flourishes as it
replaces
the fading hue.
graveyards ever increase with sinking conflict or the natural flow of life
but ancestral passage is disrupted,
traditions disturbed
when it bumps into the construction next door.
as it stands,
a mosque, chapel, and synagouge sit in a street in a row,
yet another set of children die on the next road over,
by a masked human with the product of our rapid need for industry.
alas, road after road is wracked with pain,
but the validation of this violence is that they are needed,
for the religious differences of barbarians held by writings and documents
from centuries long past.
for what opinion is truly right or wrong,
nothing is being done as one believes they are right, and one fears the other.
an endless circle of pain,
destroying or minimizing the
majestic art, the true beauty.
down goes another, a brother or sister or animal or thing or simply
another person but yet no
raincloud or tree or sprout or spirit-
nor another
human
will shed a
singular tear.
so while the Mother burns, the heart freezes over,
and the universe cries another day,
let us consider:
have we progressed in any way but time?
for beneath the empty (benevolent, ignorant, dying)
satin stars
lies a weeping heart,
in an empty hand.
elly hume
beneath the satin stars
there lies an empty heart in hand
blessed by the sacred Earth,
Mother Gaea traps the scars of Uranus and Kronos
behind her gentle breeze and beating heart.
but look behind her, not at her face.
she presents beauty and is the model for those with hungry eyes
forever their muse, stomach and mind always willing to consume
create art with steady hands and heavy souls,
taking tormented memories and morphing them into
something of strange beauty.
yet the Earth screams, and the womb cries,
as glorious yet torchered sons march towards death,
those of soil and flesh.
the roots of thy ancient Greeks tear at the floor of democracy,
Gaea screams and the Council floor splits down the middle,
forcing the sides in two.
(not that they were conjoined in the first place,
despite the intention of their creation)
so the wars fought past, the leaders who met a untimely death
roll in their graves at those who call themselves modern.
the great Mother grows gray,
grows evermore draped in a frosty death
as the hearts of her inhabitants freeze ever so slowly.
how dare we argue and reduce those who just want to make a change?
those who try to say something, say anything,
rather than sit in the silence
and let the dark swallow them whole.
what is the true meaning behind our great concert, if not for nothing beyond capital?
no one is seen for who they truly are,
seen for but a number.
how does one blaze a path of their own,
when they have to consider how they’ll survive?
they sacrifice a passion or
choose something only for the ability of the means.
what is the definition of being truly happy then, if they must think first
whether or not
they will be able to live
doing what they love.
so while the green dies, the natural green,
the other green flourishes as it
replaces
the fading hue.
graveyards ever increase with sinking conflict or the natural flow of life
but ancestral passage is disrupted,
traditions disturbed
when it bumps into the construction next door.
as it stands,
a mosque, chapel, and synagouge sit in a street in a row,
yet another set of children die on the next road over,
by a masked human with the product of our rapid need for industry.
alas, road after road is wracked with pain,
but the validation of this violence is that they are needed,
for the religious differences of barbarians held by writings and documents
from centuries long past.
for what opinion is truly right or wrong,
nothing is being done as one believes they are right, and one fears the other.
an endless circle of pain,
destroying or minimizing the
majestic art, the true beauty.
down goes another, a brother or sister or animal or thing or simply
another person but yet no
raincloud or tree or sprout or spirit-
nor another
human
will shed a
singular tear.
so while the Mother burns, the heart freezes over,
and the universe cries another day,
let us consider:
have we progressed in any way but time?
for beneath the empty (benevolent, ignorant, dying)
satin stars
lies a weeping heart,
in an empty hand.
From Me to You
Wiktoria Ucher
we only seem to talk about the past yous that you have been
so to the future yous
here you go
I’d like to imagine how your smile may have matured over the years
how the shirts you wore in high school will eventually become the shirts you sleep in
and how many tattoos you have by now
maybe you’ve changed your hair a few times
I probably did too
I’d like to imagine the chance that you’ll read this one day
or maybe me to you
I hope future you is proud
that you see how things have gotten better
despite all the hard and exhausting days of work and school and arguments
you, right now, have such a passion
a drive to work and accomplish so much more than what is expected of you
I hope that future you is loved and self-loving
that you are comfortable with yourself and confident in all that you do
you know what you want
all the past yous have known and every future you will know
I hope future you has achieved the goals you have set for yourself now
and have new ones to strive for
I hope you are happy
that you are at a point in your life where you want more for yourself
but you celebrate where you have come
your past yous will thank you
least of all I want to know how you feel about me
for if you have all of these things and all these goals and all this happiness in your future
I’d be happy to see you living so well with or without me
Wiktoria Ucher
we only seem to talk about the past yous that you have been
so to the future yous
here you go
I’d like to imagine how your smile may have matured over the years
how the shirts you wore in high school will eventually become the shirts you sleep in
and how many tattoos you have by now
maybe you’ve changed your hair a few times
I probably did too
I’d like to imagine the chance that you’ll read this one day
or maybe me to you
I hope future you is proud
that you see how things have gotten better
despite all the hard and exhausting days of work and school and arguments
you, right now, have such a passion
a drive to work and accomplish so much more than what is expected of you
I hope that future you is loved and self-loving
that you are comfortable with yourself and confident in all that you do
you know what you want
all the past yous have known and every future you will know
I hope future you has achieved the goals you have set for yourself now
and have new ones to strive for
I hope you are happy
that you are at a point in your life where you want more for yourself
but you celebrate where you have come
your past yous will thank you
least of all I want to know how you feel about me
for if you have all of these things and all these goals and all this happiness in your future
I’d be happy to see you living so well with or without me
A Found Poem
Sophie Gibbons
(From It Starts With Us by Colleen Hoover)
The Story of Us
Lily
I'm flustered,
I've barely had five seconds of peace,
I kind of want to cry
I've imagined running into him so many times he looked so good he smelled so good
I'm so rattled by what our chance of encounter might mean
Atlas
I had gone eighteen years not knowing what it felt like to care about someone so much,
It was hard to focus because the words "I love you”
were still tickling their way up my throat,
you were the first person
I ever wanted to become something better for
Lily
His voice makes my skin feel tingly
his smile is fluid and sexy
I'd be happy just staring at him in complete silence for an hour,
he makes such intense eye contact,
When he hugged me lit felt like a part of me
Sprang to life
Atlas
I love you
I want you to promise me something Lily,
when you look at that tattoo,
I want you to remember
why I kissed you there for the first time,
Love.
Sophie Gibbons
(From It Starts With Us by Colleen Hoover)
The Story of Us
Lily
I'm flustered,
I've barely had five seconds of peace,
I kind of want to cry
I've imagined running into him so many times he looked so good he smelled so good
I'm so rattled by what our chance of encounter might mean
Atlas
I had gone eighteen years not knowing what it felt like to care about someone so much,
It was hard to focus because the words "I love you”
were still tickling their way up my throat,
you were the first person
I ever wanted to become something better for
Lily
His voice makes my skin feel tingly
his smile is fluid and sexy
I'd be happy just staring at him in complete silence for an hour,
he makes such intense eye contact,
When he hugged me lit felt like a part of me
Sprang to life
Atlas
I love you
I want you to promise me something Lily,
when you look at that tattoo,
I want you to remember
why I kissed you there for the first time,
Love.
A Bible and a Rolling Pin
By Sydney Demerjian
I am Carie Lynved, with only one r, and my life is not one you've been taught.
My stories not known, it’s not written in stone but it’s one thing from home I’ve brought.
To this country I’m in with my Bible and pin and a journey uniting my knot.
I lived in a deep, rugged mountain valley that lays at the foot of the hike.
With my father and mother and all of my brothers and sister and our cows alike.
We worked with their dairy, a laborious job that brought little to serve on our plates.
But my brothers, they knew of a story that’s true
‘bout the land of the United States.
Then they left for the west,
leaving me and the rest
to find riches that we had not seen.
Riches
like young bellies full, mittens made out of wool and the glorious scarce paper green.
On the railroad they work breaking backs in the dirt with other men away from the wife.
But they did not complain
for they knew all their pain was more glorious than my tired life.
As I turned from my naïve,
nice,
dull,
young 19 to my wasting away early 20s,
I knew right from my heart I must soon face the start of more day to day scraping for pennies.
So I called to my father to tell him my truth and to my great surprise and delight,
mama grabbed both my hands, daddy blessed all my plans
to head for America on that night.
I look from thing to thing unsure quite what to bring as I eye mama's old rolling pin.
It’s a staple of her
and this life I was sure not to return to while in this lifetime.
So I grab my God's word and the wind blew, I heard, from outside of our chilly home's door.
I packed lightly my bag and my clothes made of rag as I turned,
shedding not a tear more.
Now I ride with my father through cold and through sleet as we challenge the frozen ice hill.
With my Bible in hand and my ticket I stand and allow in the winter's deep chill.
It runs right through my veins to the core of my heart as the thoughts stomp inside of my mind.
Thoughts of brothers to whom I am headed, I assume, and the sister I just left behind.
At the port, it is dark and the water is loud and my hands are shaking as I stare at the cloud and I think of the world and how little I know and my ship up ahead that is raring to go
so I take a deep breath and I give him a kiss as the wind in my ear stings my skin with a hiss,
it foreshadows my future in the land of the free;
it foreshadows the monsters begging to bite me
but he wipes off my tears and he gives me a shove towards the
big metal steam boat
and
God's white dove above.
The wind howls at me to turn right back around and head back to my icy abyss.
But I just cannot bear to just sit and wait there for my life to be better than this.
I can no longer stay in this village all day and wonder what’s on the other side.
For my God sends a message straight into my heart that this great knot must soon be untied.
And the tethers that hold my wrists tight to this country are squeezing my pulsing pale skin,
so onward I must go
away from Norway's snow
with my Bible and ma’s rolling pin.
The ship's voyage is long
and it's cold
and feels wrong to be doing this all without them.
But I dream of a place where sun shines in my face like the glistening coat of a gem.
I arrive after days on that ship
in a haze
and I wobble across the port deck.
There’s an ache in my back from ships jagged thwack and a stinging blunt crick in my neck.
But I take it all in, holding onto Ma's pin and my Bible held tight to my core. I approach the long line while I read a white sign that says Ellis Island and some more. It’s a language spoke here and to me, it’s unclear though I’ve seen it from time to odd time.
But for now I’ll stay mute and I’ll bite on my tongue and just hold up own handmade sign.
It reads Crawford Nebraska and I hold it up straight to all people who might pass me by.
Not a clue where to go
so
I pray someone knows and I pray that they won’t tell a lie.
A man points me one way to a train where I stay
as it costs passing by trees and homes.
I take just one more train,
do the whole thing again and end up where my young brother roams.
I stare at him through tears after all of these years as I place each of my palms on my chin. Somehow unknown to me Jesus answered my plea and I’m here with my Bible and pin.
So here I’ll plant my roots for the future Lingwoods who, in blood, will always be Lynveds.
And I vow to my Lord, after my soul is poured, each of them will have pillows and beds.
All the pain of my life will not lead to a strife and I’ll build them a stable foundation
so that they can know the joy, every girl and each boy
of a bountiful prosperous nation.
I will never go back nor will I ever pack
up my things and go back to my comfort.
With this life I’ve been given, I'm forever more driven to make sure no kids of mine must suffer.
I am Carie Lingwood with only one r and my life is now one you’ve been taught.
Though I left some things out I believe with no doubt that these vague written words tell a lot.
Thank God for bringing me to this country I'm in
where my future family will now stay.
And for them I will give mama‘s old rolling pin
and my Bible, I’ll keep tucked away.
By Sydney Demerjian
I am Carie Lynved, with only one r, and my life is not one you've been taught.
My stories not known, it’s not written in stone but it’s one thing from home I’ve brought.
To this country I’m in with my Bible and pin and a journey uniting my knot.
I lived in a deep, rugged mountain valley that lays at the foot of the hike.
With my father and mother and all of my brothers and sister and our cows alike.
We worked with their dairy, a laborious job that brought little to serve on our plates.
But my brothers, they knew of a story that’s true
‘bout the land of the United States.
Then they left for the west,
leaving me and the rest
to find riches that we had not seen.
Riches
like young bellies full, mittens made out of wool and the glorious scarce paper green.
On the railroad they work breaking backs in the dirt with other men away from the wife.
But they did not complain
for they knew all their pain was more glorious than my tired life.
As I turned from my naïve,
nice,
dull,
young 19 to my wasting away early 20s,
I knew right from my heart I must soon face the start of more day to day scraping for pennies.
So I called to my father to tell him my truth and to my great surprise and delight,
mama grabbed both my hands, daddy blessed all my plans
to head for America on that night.
I look from thing to thing unsure quite what to bring as I eye mama's old rolling pin.
It’s a staple of her
and this life I was sure not to return to while in this lifetime.
So I grab my God's word and the wind blew, I heard, from outside of our chilly home's door.
I packed lightly my bag and my clothes made of rag as I turned,
shedding not a tear more.
Now I ride with my father through cold and through sleet as we challenge the frozen ice hill.
With my Bible in hand and my ticket I stand and allow in the winter's deep chill.
It runs right through my veins to the core of my heart as the thoughts stomp inside of my mind.
Thoughts of brothers to whom I am headed, I assume, and the sister I just left behind.
At the port, it is dark and the water is loud and my hands are shaking as I stare at the cloud and I think of the world and how little I know and my ship up ahead that is raring to go
so I take a deep breath and I give him a kiss as the wind in my ear stings my skin with a hiss,
it foreshadows my future in the land of the free;
it foreshadows the monsters begging to bite me
but he wipes off my tears and he gives me a shove towards the
big metal steam boat
and
God's white dove above.
The wind howls at me to turn right back around and head back to my icy abyss.
But I just cannot bear to just sit and wait there for my life to be better than this.
I can no longer stay in this village all day and wonder what’s on the other side.
For my God sends a message straight into my heart that this great knot must soon be untied.
And the tethers that hold my wrists tight to this country are squeezing my pulsing pale skin,
so onward I must go
away from Norway's snow
with my Bible and ma’s rolling pin.
The ship's voyage is long
and it's cold
and feels wrong to be doing this all without them.
But I dream of a place where sun shines in my face like the glistening coat of a gem.
I arrive after days on that ship
in a haze
and I wobble across the port deck.
There’s an ache in my back from ships jagged thwack and a stinging blunt crick in my neck.
But I take it all in, holding onto Ma's pin and my Bible held tight to my core. I approach the long line while I read a white sign that says Ellis Island and some more. It’s a language spoke here and to me, it’s unclear though I’ve seen it from time to odd time.
But for now I’ll stay mute and I’ll bite on my tongue and just hold up own handmade sign.
It reads Crawford Nebraska and I hold it up straight to all people who might pass me by.
Not a clue where to go
so
I pray someone knows and I pray that they won’t tell a lie.
A man points me one way to a train where I stay
as it costs passing by trees and homes.
I take just one more train,
do the whole thing again and end up where my young brother roams.
I stare at him through tears after all of these years as I place each of my palms on my chin. Somehow unknown to me Jesus answered my plea and I’m here with my Bible and pin.
So here I’ll plant my roots for the future Lingwoods who, in blood, will always be Lynveds.
And I vow to my Lord, after my soul is poured, each of them will have pillows and beds.
All the pain of my life will not lead to a strife and I’ll build them a stable foundation
so that they can know the joy, every girl and each boy
of a bountiful prosperous nation.
I will never go back nor will I ever pack
up my things and go back to my comfort.
With this life I’ve been given, I'm forever more driven to make sure no kids of mine must suffer.
I am Carie Lingwood with only one r and my life is now one you’ve been taught.
Though I left some things out I believe with no doubt that these vague written words tell a lot.
Thank God for bringing me to this country I'm in
where my future family will now stay.
And for them I will give mama‘s old rolling pin
and my Bible, I’ll keep tucked away.
