Poetry V. 2
Ender’s Note
by Gabrielle Boyce
The sun is setting,
the sky is waning,
the trees are swaying,
the wind is blowing,
the birds are chirping,
the world is turning.
I lay still.
My eyes are closing
and
my sight is going--
Fickle Haven
by Gabrielle Boyce
And then came the night,
where his voice was
a low, longing rumble
against my ear.
Where his breath was
a warm, caressing brush
against my neck.
Where his thought was
a sweet, loving whisper
against my mind.
Where his touch was
a soft, gentle embrace
against my skin.
And then came the day,
where his love melted away.
Midnight’s Song
by Gabrielle Boyce
I weave to you the song of Midnight-
So soft and delicate its notes,
so somber is its tune.
Crying in its melody,
most sharp in solitude.
Played in the stillness of night,
when there is no hope to fight.
Sung by past monsters and fears,
hope deteriorating by the years.
Filling your mind with anxiety and doubt,
when not a soul to hear you shout.
You may utter, you may scream,
but the only way to end it,
is to dream.
Solace
by Gabrielle Boyce
It called her name
in an enticing, bittersweet note:
Happily, she obliged.
She stood in the lost garden
with a soft smile.
Here, she could forget.
The ribbons of the sun
wrapped her like a
warm, delicate kiss.
Purples, yellows, greens-
Quietly caught in a dance.
Mosses, flowers, trees-
Rhythmically swaying in the wind.
Dragons, butterflies, bees-
Gently humming in a harmony.
It had called her name
in a jarring, world-shattering shrill:
Regretfully, she obliged.
She stood in the dismal room
with a slight frown.
Here, she remembered.
The rays of dust
caked her like a
thick, trapping shroud.
She heaved a sigh
and returned to the place
all too familiar.
Chess
by Sarah Bryant
So far apart
perspectives that exist worlds away
awake I sit
shifting, moving, replacing
revolving the pieces in my head
heavy piece after immovable piece,
peace not something to be had,
held only in painful competition, a battle
back and forth.
For Black King,
White Queen
keep dancing in diagonals--
distant at once, brought close again.
Always passing, never harmony,
hardly together, no never.
Needless patterns, endless strategies
stuck in a rehearsal, a distant
denotation of a visceral truth.
Turned at a moment face to face,
finally within reach
we reach
Checkmate.
Ode to a Sidewalk Thong
by Parker Carwile
Public peepshow!
At midday, you lay
exposed--
dropped--
forgotten?
Or placed…
On a sidewalk you scream,
“I AM THONG!”
A rave paint splatter
crowned in lace,
your cotton string
crumbles
under UV rays.
Secrets old Vicky
couldn’t keep,
so she gave you the slip--
No more tongue
in her cheeks!
Could you just--
by Parker Carwile
“Look.”
“What?”
“See…?”
“… No.”
“It’s not getting better.”
“Ok…”
“Well if you were me—”
“I’m not.”
“Well if you could—”
“I can’t.”
“It’s all…”
“… It’ll get better.”
“How do you—”
“I don’t.”
“Well if you were me—”
“I’m not.”
“Well if you could—”
“I can’t!”
“It’s all…”
“… What?”
“How do you—”
“I don’t...”
“… See?”
“No…”
“Look!”
“It’ll get better—”
“It’s not getting better.”
“Ok…”
There was this one time…
by Parker Carwile
“… It was raining.”
“Uhuh.”
“Like really hard! And it was nighttime…”
“Yeah.”
“I was driving on the highway…”
“Ok.”
“Pouring rain!”
“Yeah.”
“And this guy…”
“Uhuh.”
“No kidding!”
“Yeah.”
“He ran right out in front of me!”
“Mmm.”
“Yeah! Pitch black, pouring rain, ran right across the highway…”
“Mmm.”
“No kidding! He ran! It was pouring!”
“Man.”
“I know! It was pitch black and everything…”
“Mmm.”
“Like right in the middle of the highway!”
“Man.”
“I mean the rain was ridiculous…”
“Why do you—”
“No idea! He just ran! Right in the middle of the night… It was pouring!”
“Man.”
“Like who does that? Across a highway!”
“Yeah.”
“I mean doing that in the day would be bad enough…”
“Yeah.”
“He did that at night and in the rain!”
“Mmm.”
“Like pouring rain! I could hardly see him…”
“Man.”
“And across the highway for crying out loud!”
“Mmm.”
“I mean really! Some people…”
“Yeah. That’s something.”
“Yeah… well anyway…”
Notice
by Parker Carwile
The rainbow on the white walls--
The boxed butterflies, plaques for pillows--
The rug beater left hanging
Next to bottled petals in leather-bound ink--
The calligraphy on the shelf--
The tethered teapots, bowls for balancing--
Where two owls, elephants, and giraffes
Press perfumes never turned or creased--
The heap of fuzz worn--
The sapphires lost
With the rubies left--
The doghouse for the spiders--
The windows for the mold--
The fence for the door--
And the swing swung,
Broken by an emptied room.
Red Brick Home
by Chase A. Dembrun
Dedicated to Katherine Thornton
Red, Red Bricks like those of old
Red Brick House where they used to scold
Childhood home now long gone
Something about it just seems wrong
Everyone says “Sorry for your loss”
Their empathy, not even worth moss
Red Brick Home where I once resided
Gone now with no more time bided
You made me who I am today
But now since you have gone away
Hollow I am on this warm spring day
Red Brick Home I miss you still
Even though sometimes you could be shrill
I love you Red Brick Home
Even with your funny gnomes
One day I hope to see you again
Red Brick Home where it first began
Foggy On The Western Front
by Chase A. Dembrun
I awaken at the break of day
And rise to ponder on the bay
Fog rolls in from every side
Towards this bank without a tide
Here I sit and think of my
Country which seems fit to die
So willing to give in to the world
Without knowing how things will unfurl
An eagle who soared above the sky
Now looks as if a nasty sty
Corrupt, decrepit, no longer able to serve
A weasel without the least bit of nerve
The fog diminishes, but the feeling stays
Even while the sun shines its mighty rays
Pondering can only go so far
I guess it’s time to raise the bar
Time to act and not to think
Because if no one does we’ll cross the brink
Whiskey Heart
by Sarah Dulaney
No, Love.
You are a shot of whiskey.
Smooth going down but with a sharp bite in the end
A forceful shiver of the spine.
From the moment I swallow, a warmth spreads
from my insides to my fingertips.
Almost burning. A fire of life.
The best way to kick the nerves.
The best way to start a party.
The best way to waste away the sadness.
You haze the world in a devil-may-care kind of way.
A whiskey tinted window pane.
You’re the promise of a good time
but with no warning label for the path of destruction left behind.
You leave a killer hangover,
But I can’t quite give you up.
A Day Long Forgotten
by A.B. Harrison
It is with this rose,
Thorns stuck deep in
My thumbs
That I bleed for you
One final time.
It is with this
Heart heavy I whisper
My final goodbye
Before your fresh grave.
It is with this rose,
Petals dripping with rain
And crimson tears
That I apologize for
How we ended,
Dear mother,
A day long remembered
In tears when love ended.
It is with this sigh
I mutter from whimpered mouth
That I remember you
As when I was a boy
For the better moments
When love we both shared.
It is with this rose,
Long and bent like
Our separate paths
That I place upon
Your stone as a son once more
And lay a kiss one final time.
It is with these thorns
And dripping petals
That till we meet again,
Dear mother,
I wish you a peaceful rest
And tell you of love
Long silent from our lips
As I plant this crimson flower
For you
On your birthday,
Now long forgotten.
Smoke and Fire
by A.B. Harrison
The ceremonial cigar has been lit;
The whiskey sipped slowly,
Cheap and ready to unravel
Between puffs of dark
Tobacco smoke exhaled.
The cigar remains like a ritual held
Between fingers knotted and bent,
Yet the whiskey pours
Like warm amber fire
Upon the tongue and waits
Counting the seconds
Until swallowed down my throat.
The party is over.
Everyone long gone and home;
I am left alone with the cold night air;
Left to hold both smoke and fire,
To wait for my thoughts to turn to ash.
Of Man and His Dog
by A.B. Harrison
The night is dark;
Eyes falling.
Train rolls on by
Stirring the foundation of my slumber.
The pup next to me burrows
At my side deep in down,
Her head resting on my shoulder
Asking questions I cannot hear.
The tide of sand has risen
With grains sprinkled
At my lashes.
I feel the gentle touch of
Her rough, wet embrace
And I am transformed
To that child
First meeting the ferocious
Licks of a curious dog.
I know not what she thinks:
Maybe of walks to come
Or the unknown of her new home,
But as my eyes end in the black,
I relish those thoughts
Of what waits before us
Of both possibilities and heartbreaks
Of the years rich with memories
Of man and his dog.
To Take To Sea
by A.B. Harrison
The soil is now drab.
The grass is no longer green
Like it once was.
My life is too dry,
Too orderly,
And mundane.
Too few ups and downs
And surprises
To knock me off my feet.
I have grown apathetic
Of life within the shore.
It is time
To take to sea
And sail her rough waves
And hear the boat creak
On stormy nights
Over the dark abyss
Of a bottomless trench.
It is time
To be like Ishmael
Removing oneself from
The infertile soil of my youth
With little to hold me back
And take to a ship:
Work its sails,
Man the helm,
And remain long hours
In the nest
In search
Of my own white Moby
On an open
And boundless sea
To face the chance of Death,
Driven to a watery grave,
And find the joy, challenge,
And excitement
In the wave ridden voyage
That soil cannot supply,
Whatever form that may be
And however long that will take.
There is Life Along
by A.B. Harrison
There is darkness...
There is light.
Men and women.
There's food on plates.
Tables and chairs
Nicely lit
In restaurants.
Ears listening to the laughter
From tables across the room,
… to that of champagne trickling
From a tipped bottle
… and the clinking of glasses
Being set and toasted at tables.
Food becomes, when tears fall,
Sharp
… and pierces
Behind the molars.
Senses rouse.
The food becomes spicier...
... saltier...
… sour…
not sweet...
not savory…
…but bitter.
There is life.
Hope and disease.
People at tables
Staring down red faced
With eyes like puff pastry.
Those overcome with grief.
Hit with memories
Of all the callous deeds they’ve done,
Those they've lost.
Friends and lovers long departed
Only to remain
In painful scars.
The feeling of weightlessness
As life stops completely
And interrogation begins.
That's the disease.
Time goes on.
Days.
… months.
There's work.
Traffic.
The sound of birds calling in trees.
Slowly things drift back together
And attempts are made
To bring back what is normalcy
… for life to begin yet again.
Fishermen leaving their ports to
… Cast their lines...
Officers hitting the streets
... reporting for duty…
People returning to restaurants and chairs
… to sip wine and laugh once more.
In life
There is darkness
That blankets the eyes
And beats the heart
Till black and level.
But beyond the veil
There is light
And people
And noise
And food.
Places and flowers.
And hands to hold.
Those that reach out
To offer warmth...
...compassion...
...forgiveness...
...and love.
Slowly life
Like rain clouds
… moves along.
Bright
by Aadrise Johnson
Those five or six young students
perched on their desks
that bright-eyed fall morning
eyed me up and down. Wary
and unfamiliar. So, I stop.
The back or front taunts
the panic inside of me.
The beginning of the end.
Or some new start.
I was too far from where
I had to belong, too bright
for other niggers, and too bright
for a nigger. Even now,
I figured we were all
one, white, black, indian,
besides, this wasn’t the 60’s.
Am I afraid of change? I sure
am. Those five or six students
were going to eat me alive.
I kept up but they were
always ahead. While I
was supposed to
be three steps back.
The day ends and
I am back home,
back where I belong. The bus
ride with the other niggers
I was too bright for.
But instead of words,
they used fist to express
themselves. Dark skin
darkened with bruises, I
wept at night. Sprawled
in bed, I cried out
to find where I belonged,
where I should be. The Oreos
who just didn’t get enough love.
Night came and went and I
was back at the start,
traveling with other niggers
I was too bright for to
learn with those who
thought I was too bright
for a nigger. Still, I learned
that this was just the beginning
to an end that would never come.
A Divided Rose
by Megan Jones
A divided rose so soft and gentle
Two insignias combine,
As much as two tints differ.
Half of purity, sweet and fair.
The other drenched in a velvet sangria hue.
A single stem long like a cigarette holder
Clutching the tantalizing petals
With its long emerald tentacles.
Petals fragile like a porcelain figurine
Drenched in resin and burnished with shine.
Soft to the touch of a human who knows no grace.
So mesmerizing is the rose as delicate as lace.
White Wall
by Megan Jones and Austin Harrison
White wall, at least before history lapsed,
Now soiled with skid marks and grime.
Bottom half tiles chipped from careless feet.
A faded chestnut row of tiles line the medium,
Stretching across the long hall,
A vacant corridor plastered into place.
The mundane concrete and ceramic
Comprised by monotonous eggshells and creams.
White wall, dinged by neglect and carelessness.
Combed mortar and uneven tiles laid forever
Expressionless imperfections, blank with disposition.
A faded wash of demeanor resonating nothingness.
Dark Skies
by Megan Jones
May was long and cold.
Silent beaches, too cold to swim.
Cloudy skies filled the air,
As a storm began to brew.
The smell of pine, fish, and lobster
As vacation came and went.
June was too fast to remember.
Writing, calling, constantly moving.
Both birthdays’ passed yet again.
I must have been somewhere on stage.
But I got a thumbs up, the high-five of gratitude.
I definitely overlooked the dark skies looming.
July was something I needed to get through.
Burning the midnight oil online.
Solving, figuring, I kept calling for help.
The storm met its tender when no one answered at home.
We saw it in his eyes something welling inside.
The storm was silently coming; the mood was in the air.
August was boring, if anyone asked.
As thunder and lightning crackled across the kitchen table,
I heard all the things that couldn’t be taken back.
The storm, he fought without any shame.
The chair struck me hard, I was in its way.
The storm, he hit us and took away our pride.
September was different.
The chair left no scars, but the memories still sting.
We had to watch the storm, the tender laughed away.
Things could never be as before.
Sibling fights just happen that way.
Things seem as they were before.
But I’ll never forget, my brother threw the chair.
Learning My Own Language
by Maddy Operario
I was born in a place where words are said in rapid motion
Where skies were filled with warmth and memories
At three years old I learned there were two different songs in my head
The song where my parents sang the lyrics
and the song where someone else forced the lyrics on those who did not know them.
At seven years old I heard someone tell my mother to speak English
even though she was,
just in a much more broken way.
At two the colors of the sky changed
and my parents with the quickness of their mouths
turned mute.
At four I heard my mother play the symphonies of her language
to drown the cries in her sleep.
At seven years old I watched my mother pile book after book
on how to sing the same lyrics as everyone else.
At fourteen I resented my parents for their broken English,
for traditions I had no knowledge about,
and for traits that made me different from everyone else.
I asked
Why did the color of my skin connect with words that made me ashamed of who I am?
Or why did my black hair and dark eyes make me wish to shrink
into the sea of light hair and bright eyes and skin the color of rice?
Rice like the meals my family eats often questioned with scrunched noses and criticizing eyes
followed with shame of eating in front of peers,
Peers that said words like ‘chink’ and ‘ching chong’
and asked if I was related to the Chinese guy
they met at that one time, that one place, some point years ago.
At fourteen years old I was ashamed of who I was.
Eighteen, I learned the song of my people
I learned the skies of my home and the words my parents loved to hear;
I learned the history of my heritage,
of the countless lives lost and the fight of thousands of people
who were pegged with demeaning words.
I learned the loss of my parents, the loss of all things familiar,
of the people fleeing from a country that ignored their rights
to come to another where all eyes shifted on anything different and foreign
and urged them to be like everyone else.
I learned that the color of my skin,
the darkness of my hair,
the traditions of my family,
and the history of my people,
were not defined by the stereotypes of the ignorant.
At eighteen I learned my own language.
1 and 0
by Hunter Pittman
People outside the prism
can only see the one and zero,
And these people like to label
others either a one or a zero,
Either a man or a woman
And that is it……….No,
sadly you are wrong.
I’m sorry that your mind can
only see this or that,
Because there are people that stand
both in between and outside these numbers.
These people have thrown societies’
standards to the side
And have chosen their own path to follow,
From those who let gender flow like water
through a stream,
To others who firmly believe that
they are in another category,
Or completely stand apart from
a zero and a one.
Gender and sexuality cannot be
contained in these digits
They exist in, out, and around the
Binary.
It Gets Better
by Hunter Pittman
With the hustle coming form above
I move though the streets
-with caution hidden in my excitement
The drive, the walking, and the blisters
-are now worth everything
To be joined in these streets by others
-from across the country
All gathering together to celebrate
-ourselves, our being, our existence
The honor guard helps us remember our fallen
And in this day of celebration we are reminded
-that hatred and ignorance still walk among us
But throughout the pain in my heels and being
-raw from my straps
This is what I needed to see
This is what I needed to experience
I needed to see the happiness from everyone
The non-judgment in everyone’s eyes and
-the acceptance
From gay to trans and bears to leather
People need to experience this to know
-that it gets better
With my colors on my shoulders
-I can say this
Lavender, green, blue, and pink
Are the reasons why I can’t sink
A bullet to the head and
A rocket to the heart
Still can’t make me fall apart
Go on and shoot a nuke at my head
But never forget the words I said
It can and will get better.
At night
by ReAnna Rowden
At night,
God is a visitor
Appearing to me
Not as the sky
When a consort to Woe recognizes
Time’s hold will, someday,
Erode
Nor as the path
When its habitual abuser abandons
The bread-crumb promises of foreign, unauthentic
Motives,
But He manifests
Only as the thought:
“I will try again
tomorrow. ”
Sonder
by Kendra Rowell
Sonder
i stand watching
the everlasting shower
through my upstairs window,
skipping rocks on my bedroom floor
as the pond below me rises with my anxiety
i bite my lip, scratch my head, and shake my fist at Tlaloc
i am but a fly on the edge of a glass jar full of honey waiting to jump
the rain has forced himself onto me like an obsessed lover does as i cry out
with no escape but to step onto the roof, close my eyes, clench my fists and j u m p
there is no solid ground left in the city: not in homes, streets, schools, nor churches
we are the chosen speck of dust to be cleaned and polished off of the globe today.
possessions drowned, suffocated, now nothing to distract us from our own minds
the hullabaloo around me and in my house is a reflection of my inward home
my own universe comfortably coinciding with Nature, my bare feet start to
swell and bubble and wrinkle just when the rain stops and i open my eyes
and am startled to look down and hear my waving neighbor say
“b e c a l m , m y d e a r , H e l p i s o n t h e w a y.”
Vagitus
by Kendra Rowell
My murderous hands tingle
With satisfaction. Was it worth it?
Are the gods pleased
With me this time? The rising waters
Would be stopped now once and for all,
Wouldn’t they? The children lie limply,
Bones crushed and swallowed by the
Sea, a small price to pay, to soothe the bubbling
Rain which swells with every second.
My poor child is dead, and I calmly cool my toes on the shore,
Skipping rocks on my offspring’s tombstone.
Look how they sink so quickly!
Have I just now become the monster,
Or was I that way all along?
I ring with regret and burn
With shame. Suffocation would have been better
Than living with open lungs and a broken heart.
My baby cries at me from the ocean floor,
And I long to trade places,
But sit here breathing in fresh air,
Head above the water,
Heart at the bottom of the sea.
Good Morning
by Kendra Rowell
I sit silently peeking through
the rails of the stairs
and watch her cry,
but still she sets the table for him.
It was an hour before sunrise. The woodpeckers
rest their beating beaks, the sky soft and quiet
like the eye of a hurricane.
The kitchen is smoked
with the smell of baking biscuits and buttered eggs.
Mother’s hands are warmed
by the water that
she washes dishes in,
soap bubbles racing down her fingertips. She stares
through the foggy window, dreading the moment
his alarm goes off.
The ticking clock reminds her
that in an hour he wakes.
Her apron, tattered and torn
is not from years of hard work,
but is merely the result of pulling away from the hand
that slung her to the floor
yesterday.
I hear him stir and take cover
behind my cracked door, unnoticed and all-knowing.
He stomps down the stairs, grabs
a newspaper and looks her in the eye, snarling coldly:
“Is my breakfast ready this time?”
I wish she would poison his coffee.
doux bébé
by John Sadler
There’s a boy who lives in the swamp-thing that is your heart
sleeping on cypress knees
and drinking holy water
This boy thinks in free verse and moves through liquid
He can speak to trees
and he sees in them a ferocity unbridled by concrete and chlorine
This boy, who makes love to the concept of sin,
He huddles down deep in your liver and bathes in bile
You met the boy once
when he opened his mouth to speak, your fluids dripped from his mouth
He told you that there were orgies inside you
In the blood and the bile there were bodies
and the bodies were writhing and they were constant
This boy doesn’t trust you
Why would he?
Your heart is a swamp
Untitled (1)
by John Sadler
You are the result of divinity at climax
Shot forth as God’s seed
not as a plan but as a pleasure uncontrolled
You are the inhibition of God
Your flesh is his embarrassment.
For nothing but happiness uncontrolled
(an uninhibited presence of being)
could make you in your image
You are the long sigh of the universe
The heat death of the self
The roofs of houses in Jerusalem were covered in women
and King David, in all his Lust and glory, threw himself on Bathsheba
who rose from her bath like Aphrodite the sea foam.
In the gilded walls of his palace he gave to Uriah his own son.
Uriah leapt to death on swords.
Untitled (2)
by John Sadler
I saw you the other day
Creeping through town like murder was on your mind
I’d heard a lot about you
I’d heard that you like to write swamp poetry on unrolled cigarettes
And you sometimes made love to alligators to bear their children
When I saw you creep, I thought you’d be going to the place where people were hung.
I thought you’d lick the ground where they coughed up blood.
But you didn’t. You lay in the stockyards.
The straw is itchy there, and you were eaten by bulls.
Koté
by John Sadler
It is hard to breathe in deeply in the house that smells of a seafood market
Your tongue is coated in metal
your food is forged in a steel mill
All around you are the tall sea-grasses that tickle your nose
Holding your glass is difficult whenever your hands are covered in brine.
The salt does nothing for your grip.
Callinectes sapidus -- Allium cepa -- Crangon crangon
Apium graveolens -- Allium sativum
Wading through the brackish backwater to get to the stove fills your boots to the top
They have to be emptied when you return to the dock.
When you untie your boat.
When you cast yourself back into the deep blue desert.
Creation Myth
by John Sadler
When This Poem was 10 years old it went deer hunting with its father
It shot a deer, and as it lay dying in its red-black blood This Poem’s father reached down and took some of the blood on his fingers
He wiped the blood on This Poem’s cheek
and This Poem has never been able to wash it off
and This Poem smells it on itself always
The smell of blood is sticky and sweet like candy
The smell of blood is god
This Poem would sometimes smell god on his face
And he would cry out to god
“oh Christ Jehovah help me get this off of my face”
And Christ Jehovah never listened
because it was in This Poem’s best interest to have the blood on its face
This Poem’s father knew
Sometimes Christ Jehovah and This Poem’s father and the deer dead in its red-black blood would get together and play cards
They bet with souls and drank river-water out of crystal glasses
This Poem was never invited to a game because the blood stench overpowered them all
Becoming
by Marshall Schoth
Of old books and old men
Hard looks and have beens
They tell me about a life well lived
Behold ye men of great!
Learn the lesson of the dead
Unfurled in words of the wiser minds
Those blessed souls
Who have looked evil in the face
With a countenance of stone
And chose to not be subdued
As they simply became
The stronger one
The one we'd all like to be
To see the indolence in opportunity
And the action in self
To see the eternity of words
And the beauty in the wrong
For experience writes
The encryption song
To become the potential is to be great
But to be held high is futile
For all will pass.
Names will be forgotten
But a life in service
Lives long past
The mind
Behind it
Death before Decision
by Marshall Schoth
I'm seriously transparent
Downright heavy
I've fallen beneath and away
And it's here I see.
Underneath our conversations
Of polite lines and feathery bigotry
Of slurred words and drunken revelry
Lie our most sensitive realities
Those that show our fear to realize
That we all live so far away
Death before Decision we say
Steadily still, like flat-footed robots,
We avoid and abstain from
Anything and everything
That goes Deep or goes heavy
Cause we're not ready
Like dazed brights to our crazed eyes
Blunt Truth is a fast road to daylight
Grit & Glow
by Marshall Schoth
We move on 'till we forget again.
Hiding from our dissonance,
We litter our conversations
With shallow insignificance.
Empty memories of time long gone
And bitter realizations of things lost
Run heavy in idle minds
Like futile depression
Hollow clichés comfort the distance
Running away from any disagreement
The easier way is what we want.
The easier way is what we often do.
But in spite of it all,
In light of my selective condemnation,
I'm always searching for my song
Writing my words
Thinking about my life
Thinking about yours as well
So distracted we are
I don't know why.
Let’s just slow it down
Today is Today
by Joe Spratley
Today is Today
Tomorrow will be Tomorrow
Yesterday was Yesterday
Today I deal with Today
Tomorrow I will deal with Tomorrow
But will not deal with Yesterday
Because Today is Today
Today I am Myself
I am not Myself of Yesterday
Nor am I the Myself of Tomorrow
Today I am the Myself of Today
Tomorrow I shall be the Myself of Tomorrow
But shall not ever be the Myself of Yesterday again
Because I am the Myself of Today
Today's sun rose in pink and yellow
Today's sky was creamy blue with Today's lazy clouds
Today's grass was tousled by Today's gentle breeze
Not like Tomorrow's sun or sky or clouds or grass or breeze
Nor like Yesterday's sun or sky or clouds or grass or breeze
Today is Today with Today's sun, sky, clouds, grass and breeze
And so Tomorrow shall not be the same.
White Skin
by Hunter Strickland
My ancestors did not always have this, white skin.
But Europeans came and gave this curse, white skin.
They came to this land looking to spread their disease.
They came with their guns, religion, and this white skin.
They thought of themselves as the superior ones.
The redskin was hunted and butchered by white skin.
The white men believed what they did was for the best.
The white men decided that all would be white skin.
These white men came like rain and distorted my flesh.
I have worn it since birth, this distasteful white skin.
They saw fit to judge my identity for me.
What I wanted was not thought of by the white skin.
White men have cut my connection with the Cherokee.
It has tainted my Cherokee blood, this white skin.
Fellow Cherokee will only see me like this.
It separates me from other Cherokee, this white skin.
Rednecks and trash are the only kin I'm allowed.
My heritage is limited by this white skin.
However, I will not bear this burden alone.
My children will regrettably bear this white skin.
With each generation the connection will fade.
Each generation will grow this white skin.
My spirit crumbles with every thought that comes to mind.
This Strickland cannot bear the burden of white skin.
Despair
by Devin Tant
It was not loud.
It was crying softly in the wings of academia,
Pleas for help lost amid the anti-social media.
We ignored the change from solitude to stagnation,
Never catching that ‘coercion’ was spelled ‘castration.’
It was not bright.
There were no red skies emblazoned in the morning,
Mimicking the wounds–not even a warning.
Neither explosions, nor bursts of incandescent light
Served to illuminate the ever-growing plight.
It was not violent.
Malicious, perhaps, and infinitesimally subtle,
Leaving no hope for contestation or rebuttal.
There was no indication of a problem emergent.
No way of knowing that it was this deadly urgent.
It is not hopeless.
There’s no truth behind this self-perceived abjection,
The fact that you’re breathing is already perfection.
For simply surviving each day to watch the setting sun
Is proof of the concept–it hasn’t yet won.
Wasteland
by Devin Tant
I stood by, outside,
as you went down on a cigarette.
The plumes of smoke billowed
like signals I couldn't read,
which was alright.
The silence told me enough.
The face you were wearing,
though warm in color,
was nearly as cold as the droplets
falling a few feet away.
It would have been riddled with canyons,
if your tears had left scars.
You ashed the cigarette,
watching in stoic amusement
as the cinders flared
and died on the hardened dirt.
You sighed before flicking the butt
into the nearby bushes.
Just one more dying light
in this joyless wasteland.
Underdogs
by Devin Tant
When they lowered you, the earth trembled
as if terrified to hold such weight.
We were both someone to watch
and no one important--
a pack of wild kids against the world
living life in movie montages,
marking our passing with broken bottles
and overturned shopping carts.
We sang praises to the underdogs--
they who took the world on their shoulders
with a shrug, and a smirk,
and a devil-may-care attitude.
We were explorers of the parking lot pavement
and abandoned houses,
beings of pure potential who were wasting it
on half-baked dreams that wouldn’t change a thing.
We danced under train tracks,
invaded swing sets and playgrounds,
and etched our initials into wet concrete.
We tore free of our prom clothes and
watched them flutter away as we raced.
We weren’t running away,
just running.
And you were always six steps ahead.
Shootout
by Devin Tant
When the world comes to close
I hope we don’t look backwards and boast.
There’s no one left that can match our sin;
Columbine was just a blossom back then.
We concentrate on everything past
because this as a future can’t last.
We’re the retro, nostalgia generation,
the "blind letting the blind lead" nation.
But it’s not right to keep so tongue-in-cheek
After confirming that we’re not the biblical ‘meek.’
We did not inherit the globe from our parents,
Rather we stole it from the heirs declarant.
We'll regret we believed everything was so dire
once our characters have been placed under fire.
How many times then must our churches knell
Before we see that school's become hell?
What else is there to do when backed up to the ledge
But cry our defense in the words of the pledge:
"All for one, full of fraud,
Indivisible, far above God."
The only reason we have left to kneel
Is if we can’t stand for this grand ideal.
Bullets don't care about the lies we were caught in--
Victims are remembered but villains can’t be forgotten.
Fireproof
by Devin Tant
Life seems so much better
when I'm sailing away
on canvasses comprised of clouds
and navigating the tumultuous skies
with shreds of stardust
I tied together to make a compass.
I've lost track
of how long I've been floating
here on swirling wafts
of smoke,
clouds formed from fires
that illuminate
everything I fucked up.
See,
I keep telling myself
it wasn't my fault
these fires took everything
I loved.
The easiest way to burn a fool
is to tell him he's fireproof.
Elegy: Death of the Righteous Woman
by Alexis Trisler
Blood boils, and in the fever, hearts burst;
All lives end and countless souls accursed
Lie desolate in this bitter and cruel age,
Stealing past us in cunning and foaming in rage
Whilst Wisdom stands in the streets, crying,
“Stop! Stop! Listen to my voice!
Life and death are both nigh,
but only you can make the choice.
But no one hears nor gives her honor to stay,
Saying, “I’ll wait upon Her words some other day,”
Numbly moving about their tedious lives,
Deafened to the thunder of Her sorrowful cries;
Whilst forlorn and with an ashen crown,
She, a phantom, glides ‘cross the ground,
Searching ‘til the end for someone, anyone –
Her time on Earth is nearly done.
Here lies Wisdom, for She could not endure:
Quantilla sapientia mundus regatur.
The King’s Valediction
by Alexis Trisler
Keep my name as thy psalm,
Oh disciple, and may my spirit live on
In thy words of remembrance;
Partake ye in the communion of my soul,
Lest thee my memory befoul
Through the lustful pride of thy existence.
Keep my name as thy shield,
Dear son, that it might yield
Thy salvation in the midst of the fray;
Wear it close to thee, that it might
Protect thy body and fix thy sight
Upon this our victory won today.
Keep my name as thy breath,
Sweet lover, and stay the death
By thy own hand that thou longest for;
Take me in as thy trembling sigh
That again this ghost may be alive
And our ecstasy be prolonged forevermore.
Keep my name in thy mind,
Little one, take these words and bind
Them to your hands as symbols of my love;
Hide them deep within your heart,
Keep them ever close when ye start
Down the lighted path that my wisdom speaks of.
anna at the tracks
by Kenneth West
trembling, she watches
the wheels revolve—grinding,
she thinks—like the gears
inside. her mind is a racehorse
galloping in a glue factory. she steps
with a waltz’s delicate
flourish, and then at once--
her ripped dress drags her
beneath. screeching, she enters
the elysium of unconsciousness
her body bruised blissful
beyond sight, sound, touch,
beyond anything--
except regret
arachne
by Kenneth West
i spin on strands
of silk, weaving words
that walk without regret
what to me is a deity’s scorn?
she’s a walking blunderbuss
bearing both spear and shield
she sprouted from the skull
of the lewdest, crudest god
who plunges on maidens—unmindful
of his ardor, like a thunderbolt
plummeting—from the clouds, a swimmer
diving deep into the flesh
of a dryad as she sighs and cries
wrecked and wounded by her first stabbing--
the stars offer no reprieve,
my darlings, you will die
not once, not twice, but ten-thousand
times unless you claim yourself--
take the disparate strands
and twirl them into a tapestry
of your own fashioning
i know the risk.
i too, have labored at art and lost
for when the goddess saw what i had woven
she reddened with rage
my frame twisted to an ugliness unfathomable
fanged with limbs that defied
enumeration. little did i know
that i would scuttle across the floor
forever followed by the terrible
thud of feckless feet.
letters, a.d. 43
by Kenneth West
lucius to mother
with my legion i have ventured
to an uncharted land, britannia--
where boreas’s breath blows harsh
and the inhabitants—have indigo bodies
that blend in with the night--
from one of them i took
a knife for the fatherland,
a stylus scraping
the poem of manhood
down my forearm--
the loss of blood and bile led
blindness—to occupy (fleetingly) my eyes
and i thought, mother,
that i would lose the gift--
you had given me, the torch you had lit,
but death lost his wager that day--
courage and love of country
supplanted
my—faltering—sword
i bashed
that barbarian’s head--
opening—a wound which cut clean
to the flesh, soft and white
as the tunics of home
mother to lucius
you are the first--
and last—fruit to fall from
this old tree; it delights me to see
you seize this world, knowing
that you will bring our family
glory, gold, and honor
perhaps—if jove wills it, you will one day
even become consul.
i remember the first time
you wore a toga,
and i had to help you
wrap it around--
head, arm, and shoulder.
when you left that day
i wept with the knowledge
that you were crossing the threshold
into the world of men
but tears will not expunge
the script of time’s too-quick passage
listen well:
don’t gamble,
be wary of whores,
wear your cloak, and cover
your ankles. i know
i should not say this—allow--
my feelings to supersede
affairs of state:
come back bearing your shield,
but please, baby, not on it.
rilke’s panther revisited
by Kenneth West
paris, 1917
last week—the panda died.
the keeper found him
with a bamboo stalk shoved
down the wrong pipe
and even now all of us wonder--
if it was the error
of age’s wrinkled hand
or the trembling uncertainty--
of the branch’s last leaf.
from where i stand
the bars wiggle and sway
like dancing girls with arms upraised,
their faces resplendent with earth’s red dust,
but the gift they bear
in their palms is grief.
and i think of the boys,
the boys who poke their fat fingers
in my cage—the boys with uncombed
hair and untied ties. the boys
who have already forgotten
their fathers, away at the front.
and i hear their mothers’ rushed whispers,
uttering exotic names like wilson
and pershing and clemenceau as if they were
olympian aborigines—shamans who could make
the dusty lungs of the dead trenchmen
once again suspire.
while licking my greying and gangrenous skin
i look out past the bars and the barbed wire,
and i think back—to when my coat was black
as the eyes of the dying men, their bodies
filled to the brim with adrenaline--
back to the jungle and the humid
summer nights spent biting the heads
off bonobos, and i know that if i could ask--
the great god clemenceau one question
i would ask to go back, back to begin again.
by Gabrielle Boyce
The sun is setting,
the sky is waning,
the trees are swaying,
the wind is blowing,
the birds are chirping,
the world is turning.
I lay still.
My eyes are closing
and
my sight is going--
Fickle Haven
by Gabrielle Boyce
And then came the night,
where his voice was
a low, longing rumble
against my ear.
Where his breath was
a warm, caressing brush
against my neck.
Where his thought was
a sweet, loving whisper
against my mind.
Where his touch was
a soft, gentle embrace
against my skin.
And then came the day,
where his love melted away.
Midnight’s Song
by Gabrielle Boyce
I weave to you the song of Midnight-
So soft and delicate its notes,
so somber is its tune.
Crying in its melody,
most sharp in solitude.
Played in the stillness of night,
when there is no hope to fight.
Sung by past monsters and fears,
hope deteriorating by the years.
Filling your mind with anxiety and doubt,
when not a soul to hear you shout.
You may utter, you may scream,
but the only way to end it,
is to dream.
Solace
by Gabrielle Boyce
It called her name
in an enticing, bittersweet note:
Happily, she obliged.
She stood in the lost garden
with a soft smile.
Here, she could forget.
The ribbons of the sun
wrapped her like a
warm, delicate kiss.
Purples, yellows, greens-
Quietly caught in a dance.
Mosses, flowers, trees-
Rhythmically swaying in the wind.
Dragons, butterflies, bees-
Gently humming in a harmony.
It had called her name
in a jarring, world-shattering shrill:
Regretfully, she obliged.
She stood in the dismal room
with a slight frown.
Here, she remembered.
The rays of dust
caked her like a
thick, trapping shroud.
She heaved a sigh
and returned to the place
all too familiar.
Chess
by Sarah Bryant
So far apart
perspectives that exist worlds away
awake I sit
shifting, moving, replacing
revolving the pieces in my head
heavy piece after immovable piece,
peace not something to be had,
held only in painful competition, a battle
back and forth.
For Black King,
White Queen
keep dancing in diagonals--
distant at once, brought close again.
Always passing, never harmony,
hardly together, no never.
Needless patterns, endless strategies
stuck in a rehearsal, a distant
denotation of a visceral truth.
Turned at a moment face to face,
finally within reach
we reach
Checkmate.
Ode to a Sidewalk Thong
by Parker Carwile
Public peepshow!
At midday, you lay
exposed--
dropped--
forgotten?
Or placed…
On a sidewalk you scream,
“I AM THONG!”
A rave paint splatter
crowned in lace,
your cotton string
crumbles
under UV rays.
Secrets old Vicky
couldn’t keep,
so she gave you the slip--
No more tongue
in her cheeks!
Could you just--
by Parker Carwile
“Look.”
“What?”
“See…?”
“… No.”
“It’s not getting better.”
“Ok…”
“Well if you were me—”
“I’m not.”
“Well if you could—”
“I can’t.”
“It’s all…”
“… It’ll get better.”
“How do you—”
“I don’t.”
“Well if you were me—”
“I’m not.”
“Well if you could—”
“I can’t!”
“It’s all…”
“… What?”
“How do you—”
“I don’t...”
“… See?”
“No…”
“Look!”
“It’ll get better—”
“It’s not getting better.”
“Ok…”
There was this one time…
by Parker Carwile
“… It was raining.”
“Uhuh.”
“Like really hard! And it was nighttime…”
“Yeah.”
“I was driving on the highway…”
“Ok.”
“Pouring rain!”
“Yeah.”
“And this guy…”
“Uhuh.”
“No kidding!”
“Yeah.”
“He ran right out in front of me!”
“Mmm.”
“Yeah! Pitch black, pouring rain, ran right across the highway…”
“Mmm.”
“No kidding! He ran! It was pouring!”
“Man.”
“I know! It was pitch black and everything…”
“Mmm.”
“Like right in the middle of the highway!”
“Man.”
“I mean the rain was ridiculous…”
“Why do you—”
“No idea! He just ran! Right in the middle of the night… It was pouring!”
“Man.”
“Like who does that? Across a highway!”
“Yeah.”
“I mean doing that in the day would be bad enough…”
“Yeah.”
“He did that at night and in the rain!”
“Mmm.”
“Like pouring rain! I could hardly see him…”
“Man.”
“And across the highway for crying out loud!”
“Mmm.”
“I mean really! Some people…”
“Yeah. That’s something.”
“Yeah… well anyway…”
Notice
by Parker Carwile
The rainbow on the white walls--
The boxed butterflies, plaques for pillows--
The rug beater left hanging
Next to bottled petals in leather-bound ink--
The calligraphy on the shelf--
The tethered teapots, bowls for balancing--
Where two owls, elephants, and giraffes
Press perfumes never turned or creased--
The heap of fuzz worn--
The sapphires lost
With the rubies left--
The doghouse for the spiders--
The windows for the mold--
The fence for the door--
And the swing swung,
Broken by an emptied room.
Red Brick Home
by Chase A. Dembrun
Dedicated to Katherine Thornton
Red, Red Bricks like those of old
Red Brick House where they used to scold
Childhood home now long gone
Something about it just seems wrong
Everyone says “Sorry for your loss”
Their empathy, not even worth moss
Red Brick Home where I once resided
Gone now with no more time bided
You made me who I am today
But now since you have gone away
Hollow I am on this warm spring day
Red Brick Home I miss you still
Even though sometimes you could be shrill
I love you Red Brick Home
Even with your funny gnomes
One day I hope to see you again
Red Brick Home where it first began
Foggy On The Western Front
by Chase A. Dembrun
I awaken at the break of day
And rise to ponder on the bay
Fog rolls in from every side
Towards this bank without a tide
Here I sit and think of my
Country which seems fit to die
So willing to give in to the world
Without knowing how things will unfurl
An eagle who soared above the sky
Now looks as if a nasty sty
Corrupt, decrepit, no longer able to serve
A weasel without the least bit of nerve
The fog diminishes, but the feeling stays
Even while the sun shines its mighty rays
Pondering can only go so far
I guess it’s time to raise the bar
Time to act and not to think
Because if no one does we’ll cross the brink
Whiskey Heart
by Sarah Dulaney
No, Love.
You are a shot of whiskey.
Smooth going down but with a sharp bite in the end
A forceful shiver of the spine.
From the moment I swallow, a warmth spreads
from my insides to my fingertips.
Almost burning. A fire of life.
The best way to kick the nerves.
The best way to start a party.
The best way to waste away the sadness.
You haze the world in a devil-may-care kind of way.
A whiskey tinted window pane.
You’re the promise of a good time
but with no warning label for the path of destruction left behind.
You leave a killer hangover,
But I can’t quite give you up.
A Day Long Forgotten
by A.B. Harrison
It is with this rose,
Thorns stuck deep in
My thumbs
That I bleed for you
One final time.
It is with this
Heart heavy I whisper
My final goodbye
Before your fresh grave.
It is with this rose,
Petals dripping with rain
And crimson tears
That I apologize for
How we ended,
Dear mother,
A day long remembered
In tears when love ended.
It is with this sigh
I mutter from whimpered mouth
That I remember you
As when I was a boy
For the better moments
When love we both shared.
It is with this rose,
Long and bent like
Our separate paths
That I place upon
Your stone as a son once more
And lay a kiss one final time.
It is with these thorns
And dripping petals
That till we meet again,
Dear mother,
I wish you a peaceful rest
And tell you of love
Long silent from our lips
As I plant this crimson flower
For you
On your birthday,
Now long forgotten.
Smoke and Fire
by A.B. Harrison
The ceremonial cigar has been lit;
The whiskey sipped slowly,
Cheap and ready to unravel
Between puffs of dark
Tobacco smoke exhaled.
The cigar remains like a ritual held
Between fingers knotted and bent,
Yet the whiskey pours
Like warm amber fire
Upon the tongue and waits
Counting the seconds
Until swallowed down my throat.
The party is over.
Everyone long gone and home;
I am left alone with the cold night air;
Left to hold both smoke and fire,
To wait for my thoughts to turn to ash.
Of Man and His Dog
by A.B. Harrison
The night is dark;
Eyes falling.
Train rolls on by
Stirring the foundation of my slumber.
The pup next to me burrows
At my side deep in down,
Her head resting on my shoulder
Asking questions I cannot hear.
The tide of sand has risen
With grains sprinkled
At my lashes.
I feel the gentle touch of
Her rough, wet embrace
And I am transformed
To that child
First meeting the ferocious
Licks of a curious dog.
I know not what she thinks:
Maybe of walks to come
Or the unknown of her new home,
But as my eyes end in the black,
I relish those thoughts
Of what waits before us
Of both possibilities and heartbreaks
Of the years rich with memories
Of man and his dog.
To Take To Sea
by A.B. Harrison
The soil is now drab.
The grass is no longer green
Like it once was.
My life is too dry,
Too orderly,
And mundane.
Too few ups and downs
And surprises
To knock me off my feet.
I have grown apathetic
Of life within the shore.
It is time
To take to sea
And sail her rough waves
And hear the boat creak
On stormy nights
Over the dark abyss
Of a bottomless trench.
It is time
To be like Ishmael
Removing oneself from
The infertile soil of my youth
With little to hold me back
And take to a ship:
Work its sails,
Man the helm,
And remain long hours
In the nest
In search
Of my own white Moby
On an open
And boundless sea
To face the chance of Death,
Driven to a watery grave,
And find the joy, challenge,
And excitement
In the wave ridden voyage
That soil cannot supply,
Whatever form that may be
And however long that will take.
There is Life Along
by A.B. Harrison
There is darkness...
There is light.
Men and women.
There's food on plates.
Tables and chairs
Nicely lit
In restaurants.
Ears listening to the laughter
From tables across the room,
… to that of champagne trickling
From a tipped bottle
… and the clinking of glasses
Being set and toasted at tables.
Food becomes, when tears fall,
Sharp
… and pierces
Behind the molars.
Senses rouse.
The food becomes spicier...
... saltier...
… sour…
not sweet...
not savory…
…but bitter.
There is life.
Hope and disease.
People at tables
Staring down red faced
With eyes like puff pastry.
Those overcome with grief.
Hit with memories
Of all the callous deeds they’ve done,
Those they've lost.
Friends and lovers long departed
Only to remain
In painful scars.
The feeling of weightlessness
As life stops completely
And interrogation begins.
That's the disease.
Time goes on.
Days.
… months.
There's work.
Traffic.
The sound of birds calling in trees.
Slowly things drift back together
And attempts are made
To bring back what is normalcy
… for life to begin yet again.
Fishermen leaving their ports to
… Cast their lines...
Officers hitting the streets
... reporting for duty…
People returning to restaurants and chairs
… to sip wine and laugh once more.
In life
There is darkness
That blankets the eyes
And beats the heart
Till black and level.
But beyond the veil
There is light
And people
And noise
And food.
Places and flowers.
And hands to hold.
Those that reach out
To offer warmth...
...compassion...
...forgiveness...
...and love.
Slowly life
Like rain clouds
… moves along.
Bright
by Aadrise Johnson
Those five or six young students
perched on their desks
that bright-eyed fall morning
eyed me up and down. Wary
and unfamiliar. So, I stop.
The back or front taunts
the panic inside of me.
The beginning of the end.
Or some new start.
I was too far from where
I had to belong, too bright
for other niggers, and too bright
for a nigger. Even now,
I figured we were all
one, white, black, indian,
besides, this wasn’t the 60’s.
Am I afraid of change? I sure
am. Those five or six students
were going to eat me alive.
I kept up but they were
always ahead. While I
was supposed to
be three steps back.
The day ends and
I am back home,
back where I belong. The bus
ride with the other niggers
I was too bright for.
But instead of words,
they used fist to express
themselves. Dark skin
darkened with bruises, I
wept at night. Sprawled
in bed, I cried out
to find where I belonged,
where I should be. The Oreos
who just didn’t get enough love.
Night came and went and I
was back at the start,
traveling with other niggers
I was too bright for to
learn with those who
thought I was too bright
for a nigger. Still, I learned
that this was just the beginning
to an end that would never come.
A Divided Rose
by Megan Jones
A divided rose so soft and gentle
Two insignias combine,
As much as two tints differ.
Half of purity, sweet and fair.
The other drenched in a velvet sangria hue.
A single stem long like a cigarette holder
Clutching the tantalizing petals
With its long emerald tentacles.
Petals fragile like a porcelain figurine
Drenched in resin and burnished with shine.
Soft to the touch of a human who knows no grace.
So mesmerizing is the rose as delicate as lace.
White Wall
by Megan Jones and Austin Harrison
White wall, at least before history lapsed,
Now soiled with skid marks and grime.
Bottom half tiles chipped from careless feet.
A faded chestnut row of tiles line the medium,
Stretching across the long hall,
A vacant corridor plastered into place.
The mundane concrete and ceramic
Comprised by monotonous eggshells and creams.
White wall, dinged by neglect and carelessness.
Combed mortar and uneven tiles laid forever
Expressionless imperfections, blank with disposition.
A faded wash of demeanor resonating nothingness.
Dark Skies
by Megan Jones
May was long and cold.
Silent beaches, too cold to swim.
Cloudy skies filled the air,
As a storm began to brew.
The smell of pine, fish, and lobster
As vacation came and went.
June was too fast to remember.
Writing, calling, constantly moving.
Both birthdays’ passed yet again.
I must have been somewhere on stage.
But I got a thumbs up, the high-five of gratitude.
I definitely overlooked the dark skies looming.
July was something I needed to get through.
Burning the midnight oil online.
Solving, figuring, I kept calling for help.
The storm met its tender when no one answered at home.
We saw it in his eyes something welling inside.
The storm was silently coming; the mood was in the air.
August was boring, if anyone asked.
As thunder and lightning crackled across the kitchen table,
I heard all the things that couldn’t be taken back.
The storm, he fought without any shame.
The chair struck me hard, I was in its way.
The storm, he hit us and took away our pride.
September was different.
The chair left no scars, but the memories still sting.
We had to watch the storm, the tender laughed away.
Things could never be as before.
Sibling fights just happen that way.
Things seem as they were before.
But I’ll never forget, my brother threw the chair.
Learning My Own Language
by Maddy Operario
I was born in a place where words are said in rapid motion
Where skies were filled with warmth and memories
At three years old I learned there were two different songs in my head
The song where my parents sang the lyrics
and the song where someone else forced the lyrics on those who did not know them.
At seven years old I heard someone tell my mother to speak English
even though she was,
just in a much more broken way.
At two the colors of the sky changed
and my parents with the quickness of their mouths
turned mute.
At four I heard my mother play the symphonies of her language
to drown the cries in her sleep.
At seven years old I watched my mother pile book after book
on how to sing the same lyrics as everyone else.
At fourteen I resented my parents for their broken English,
for traditions I had no knowledge about,
and for traits that made me different from everyone else.
I asked
Why did the color of my skin connect with words that made me ashamed of who I am?
Or why did my black hair and dark eyes make me wish to shrink
into the sea of light hair and bright eyes and skin the color of rice?
Rice like the meals my family eats often questioned with scrunched noses and criticizing eyes
followed with shame of eating in front of peers,
Peers that said words like ‘chink’ and ‘ching chong’
and asked if I was related to the Chinese guy
they met at that one time, that one place, some point years ago.
At fourteen years old I was ashamed of who I was.
Eighteen, I learned the song of my people
I learned the skies of my home and the words my parents loved to hear;
I learned the history of my heritage,
of the countless lives lost and the fight of thousands of people
who were pegged with demeaning words.
I learned the loss of my parents, the loss of all things familiar,
of the people fleeing from a country that ignored their rights
to come to another where all eyes shifted on anything different and foreign
and urged them to be like everyone else.
I learned that the color of my skin,
the darkness of my hair,
the traditions of my family,
and the history of my people,
were not defined by the stereotypes of the ignorant.
At eighteen I learned my own language.
1 and 0
by Hunter Pittman
People outside the prism
can only see the one and zero,
And these people like to label
others either a one or a zero,
Either a man or a woman
And that is it……….No,
sadly you are wrong.
I’m sorry that your mind can
only see this or that,
Because there are people that stand
both in between and outside these numbers.
These people have thrown societies’
standards to the side
And have chosen their own path to follow,
From those who let gender flow like water
through a stream,
To others who firmly believe that
they are in another category,
Or completely stand apart from
a zero and a one.
Gender and sexuality cannot be
contained in these digits
They exist in, out, and around the
Binary.
It Gets Better
by Hunter Pittman
With the hustle coming form above
I move though the streets
-with caution hidden in my excitement
The drive, the walking, and the blisters
-are now worth everything
To be joined in these streets by others
-from across the country
All gathering together to celebrate
-ourselves, our being, our existence
The honor guard helps us remember our fallen
And in this day of celebration we are reminded
-that hatred and ignorance still walk among us
But throughout the pain in my heels and being
-raw from my straps
This is what I needed to see
This is what I needed to experience
I needed to see the happiness from everyone
The non-judgment in everyone’s eyes and
-the acceptance
From gay to trans and bears to leather
People need to experience this to know
-that it gets better
With my colors on my shoulders
-I can say this
Lavender, green, blue, and pink
Are the reasons why I can’t sink
A bullet to the head and
A rocket to the heart
Still can’t make me fall apart
Go on and shoot a nuke at my head
But never forget the words I said
It can and will get better.
At night
by ReAnna Rowden
At night,
God is a visitor
Appearing to me
Not as the sky
When a consort to Woe recognizes
Time’s hold will, someday,
Erode
Nor as the path
When its habitual abuser abandons
The bread-crumb promises of foreign, unauthentic
Motives,
But He manifests
Only as the thought:
“I will try again
tomorrow. ”
Sonder
by Kendra Rowell
Sonder
i stand watching
the everlasting shower
through my upstairs window,
skipping rocks on my bedroom floor
as the pond below me rises with my anxiety
i bite my lip, scratch my head, and shake my fist at Tlaloc
i am but a fly on the edge of a glass jar full of honey waiting to jump
the rain has forced himself onto me like an obsessed lover does as i cry out
with no escape but to step onto the roof, close my eyes, clench my fists and j u m p
there is no solid ground left in the city: not in homes, streets, schools, nor churches
we are the chosen speck of dust to be cleaned and polished off of the globe today.
possessions drowned, suffocated, now nothing to distract us from our own minds
the hullabaloo around me and in my house is a reflection of my inward home
my own universe comfortably coinciding with Nature, my bare feet start to
swell and bubble and wrinkle just when the rain stops and i open my eyes
and am startled to look down and hear my waving neighbor say
“b e c a l m , m y d e a r , H e l p i s o n t h e w a y.”
Vagitus
by Kendra Rowell
My murderous hands tingle
With satisfaction. Was it worth it?
Are the gods pleased
With me this time? The rising waters
Would be stopped now once and for all,
Wouldn’t they? The children lie limply,
Bones crushed and swallowed by the
Sea, a small price to pay, to soothe the bubbling
Rain which swells with every second.
My poor child is dead, and I calmly cool my toes on the shore,
Skipping rocks on my offspring’s tombstone.
Look how they sink so quickly!
Have I just now become the monster,
Or was I that way all along?
I ring with regret and burn
With shame. Suffocation would have been better
Than living with open lungs and a broken heart.
My baby cries at me from the ocean floor,
And I long to trade places,
But sit here breathing in fresh air,
Head above the water,
Heart at the bottom of the sea.
Good Morning
by Kendra Rowell
I sit silently peeking through
the rails of the stairs
and watch her cry,
but still she sets the table for him.
It was an hour before sunrise. The woodpeckers
rest their beating beaks, the sky soft and quiet
like the eye of a hurricane.
The kitchen is smoked
with the smell of baking biscuits and buttered eggs.
Mother’s hands are warmed
by the water that
she washes dishes in,
soap bubbles racing down her fingertips. She stares
through the foggy window, dreading the moment
his alarm goes off.
The ticking clock reminds her
that in an hour he wakes.
Her apron, tattered and torn
is not from years of hard work,
but is merely the result of pulling away from the hand
that slung her to the floor
yesterday.
I hear him stir and take cover
behind my cracked door, unnoticed and all-knowing.
He stomps down the stairs, grabs
a newspaper and looks her in the eye, snarling coldly:
“Is my breakfast ready this time?”
I wish she would poison his coffee.
doux bébé
by John Sadler
There’s a boy who lives in the swamp-thing that is your heart
sleeping on cypress knees
and drinking holy water
This boy thinks in free verse and moves through liquid
He can speak to trees
and he sees in them a ferocity unbridled by concrete and chlorine
This boy, who makes love to the concept of sin,
He huddles down deep in your liver and bathes in bile
You met the boy once
when he opened his mouth to speak, your fluids dripped from his mouth
He told you that there were orgies inside you
In the blood and the bile there were bodies
and the bodies were writhing and they were constant
This boy doesn’t trust you
Why would he?
Your heart is a swamp
Untitled (1)
by John Sadler
You are the result of divinity at climax
Shot forth as God’s seed
not as a plan but as a pleasure uncontrolled
You are the inhibition of God
Your flesh is his embarrassment.
For nothing but happiness uncontrolled
(an uninhibited presence of being)
could make you in your image
You are the long sigh of the universe
The heat death of the self
The roofs of houses in Jerusalem were covered in women
and King David, in all his Lust and glory, threw himself on Bathsheba
who rose from her bath like Aphrodite the sea foam.
In the gilded walls of his palace he gave to Uriah his own son.
Uriah leapt to death on swords.
Untitled (2)
by John Sadler
I saw you the other day
Creeping through town like murder was on your mind
I’d heard a lot about you
I’d heard that you like to write swamp poetry on unrolled cigarettes
And you sometimes made love to alligators to bear their children
When I saw you creep, I thought you’d be going to the place where people were hung.
I thought you’d lick the ground where they coughed up blood.
But you didn’t. You lay in the stockyards.
The straw is itchy there, and you were eaten by bulls.
Koté
by John Sadler
It is hard to breathe in deeply in the house that smells of a seafood market
Your tongue is coated in metal
your food is forged in a steel mill
All around you are the tall sea-grasses that tickle your nose
Holding your glass is difficult whenever your hands are covered in brine.
The salt does nothing for your grip.
Callinectes sapidus -- Allium cepa -- Crangon crangon
Apium graveolens -- Allium sativum
Wading through the brackish backwater to get to the stove fills your boots to the top
They have to be emptied when you return to the dock.
When you untie your boat.
When you cast yourself back into the deep blue desert.
Creation Myth
by John Sadler
When This Poem was 10 years old it went deer hunting with its father
It shot a deer, and as it lay dying in its red-black blood This Poem’s father reached down and took some of the blood on his fingers
He wiped the blood on This Poem’s cheek
and This Poem has never been able to wash it off
and This Poem smells it on itself always
The smell of blood is sticky and sweet like candy
The smell of blood is god
This Poem would sometimes smell god on his face
And he would cry out to god
“oh Christ Jehovah help me get this off of my face”
And Christ Jehovah never listened
because it was in This Poem’s best interest to have the blood on its face
This Poem’s father knew
Sometimes Christ Jehovah and This Poem’s father and the deer dead in its red-black blood would get together and play cards
They bet with souls and drank river-water out of crystal glasses
This Poem was never invited to a game because the blood stench overpowered them all
Becoming
by Marshall Schoth
Of old books and old men
Hard looks and have beens
They tell me about a life well lived
Behold ye men of great!
Learn the lesson of the dead
Unfurled in words of the wiser minds
Those blessed souls
Who have looked evil in the face
With a countenance of stone
And chose to not be subdued
As they simply became
The stronger one
The one we'd all like to be
To see the indolence in opportunity
And the action in self
To see the eternity of words
And the beauty in the wrong
For experience writes
The encryption song
To become the potential is to be great
But to be held high is futile
For all will pass.
Names will be forgotten
But a life in service
Lives long past
The mind
Behind it
Death before Decision
by Marshall Schoth
I'm seriously transparent
Downright heavy
I've fallen beneath and away
And it's here I see.
Underneath our conversations
Of polite lines and feathery bigotry
Of slurred words and drunken revelry
Lie our most sensitive realities
Those that show our fear to realize
That we all live so far away
Death before Decision we say
Steadily still, like flat-footed robots,
We avoid and abstain from
Anything and everything
That goes Deep or goes heavy
Cause we're not ready
Like dazed brights to our crazed eyes
Blunt Truth is a fast road to daylight
Grit & Glow
by Marshall Schoth
We move on 'till we forget again.
Hiding from our dissonance,
We litter our conversations
With shallow insignificance.
Empty memories of time long gone
And bitter realizations of things lost
Run heavy in idle minds
Like futile depression
Hollow clichés comfort the distance
Running away from any disagreement
The easier way is what we want.
The easier way is what we often do.
But in spite of it all,
In light of my selective condemnation,
I'm always searching for my song
Writing my words
Thinking about my life
Thinking about yours as well
So distracted we are
I don't know why.
Let’s just slow it down
Today is Today
by Joe Spratley
Today is Today
Tomorrow will be Tomorrow
Yesterday was Yesterday
Today I deal with Today
Tomorrow I will deal with Tomorrow
But will not deal with Yesterday
Because Today is Today
Today I am Myself
I am not Myself of Yesterday
Nor am I the Myself of Tomorrow
Today I am the Myself of Today
Tomorrow I shall be the Myself of Tomorrow
But shall not ever be the Myself of Yesterday again
Because I am the Myself of Today
Today's sun rose in pink and yellow
Today's sky was creamy blue with Today's lazy clouds
Today's grass was tousled by Today's gentle breeze
Not like Tomorrow's sun or sky or clouds or grass or breeze
Nor like Yesterday's sun or sky or clouds or grass or breeze
Today is Today with Today's sun, sky, clouds, grass and breeze
And so Tomorrow shall not be the same.
White Skin
by Hunter Strickland
My ancestors did not always have this, white skin.
But Europeans came and gave this curse, white skin.
They came to this land looking to spread their disease.
They came with their guns, religion, and this white skin.
They thought of themselves as the superior ones.
The redskin was hunted and butchered by white skin.
The white men believed what they did was for the best.
The white men decided that all would be white skin.
These white men came like rain and distorted my flesh.
I have worn it since birth, this distasteful white skin.
They saw fit to judge my identity for me.
What I wanted was not thought of by the white skin.
White men have cut my connection with the Cherokee.
It has tainted my Cherokee blood, this white skin.
Fellow Cherokee will only see me like this.
It separates me from other Cherokee, this white skin.
Rednecks and trash are the only kin I'm allowed.
My heritage is limited by this white skin.
However, I will not bear this burden alone.
My children will regrettably bear this white skin.
With each generation the connection will fade.
Each generation will grow this white skin.
My spirit crumbles with every thought that comes to mind.
This Strickland cannot bear the burden of white skin.
Despair
by Devin Tant
It was not loud.
It was crying softly in the wings of academia,
Pleas for help lost amid the anti-social media.
We ignored the change from solitude to stagnation,
Never catching that ‘coercion’ was spelled ‘castration.’
It was not bright.
There were no red skies emblazoned in the morning,
Mimicking the wounds–not even a warning.
Neither explosions, nor bursts of incandescent light
Served to illuminate the ever-growing plight.
It was not violent.
Malicious, perhaps, and infinitesimally subtle,
Leaving no hope for contestation or rebuttal.
There was no indication of a problem emergent.
No way of knowing that it was this deadly urgent.
It is not hopeless.
There’s no truth behind this self-perceived abjection,
The fact that you’re breathing is already perfection.
For simply surviving each day to watch the setting sun
Is proof of the concept–it hasn’t yet won.
Wasteland
by Devin Tant
I stood by, outside,
as you went down on a cigarette.
The plumes of smoke billowed
like signals I couldn't read,
which was alright.
The silence told me enough.
The face you were wearing,
though warm in color,
was nearly as cold as the droplets
falling a few feet away.
It would have been riddled with canyons,
if your tears had left scars.
You ashed the cigarette,
watching in stoic amusement
as the cinders flared
and died on the hardened dirt.
You sighed before flicking the butt
into the nearby bushes.
Just one more dying light
in this joyless wasteland.
Underdogs
by Devin Tant
When they lowered you, the earth trembled
as if terrified to hold such weight.
We were both someone to watch
and no one important--
a pack of wild kids against the world
living life in movie montages,
marking our passing with broken bottles
and overturned shopping carts.
We sang praises to the underdogs--
they who took the world on their shoulders
with a shrug, and a smirk,
and a devil-may-care attitude.
We were explorers of the parking lot pavement
and abandoned houses,
beings of pure potential who were wasting it
on half-baked dreams that wouldn’t change a thing.
We danced under train tracks,
invaded swing sets and playgrounds,
and etched our initials into wet concrete.
We tore free of our prom clothes and
watched them flutter away as we raced.
We weren’t running away,
just running.
And you were always six steps ahead.
Shootout
by Devin Tant
When the world comes to close
I hope we don’t look backwards and boast.
There’s no one left that can match our sin;
Columbine was just a blossom back then.
We concentrate on everything past
because this as a future can’t last.
We’re the retro, nostalgia generation,
the "blind letting the blind lead" nation.
But it’s not right to keep so tongue-in-cheek
After confirming that we’re not the biblical ‘meek.’
We did not inherit the globe from our parents,
Rather we stole it from the heirs declarant.
We'll regret we believed everything was so dire
once our characters have been placed under fire.
How many times then must our churches knell
Before we see that school's become hell?
What else is there to do when backed up to the ledge
But cry our defense in the words of the pledge:
"All for one, full of fraud,
Indivisible, far above God."
The only reason we have left to kneel
Is if we can’t stand for this grand ideal.
Bullets don't care about the lies we were caught in--
Victims are remembered but villains can’t be forgotten.
Fireproof
by Devin Tant
Life seems so much better
when I'm sailing away
on canvasses comprised of clouds
and navigating the tumultuous skies
with shreds of stardust
I tied together to make a compass.
I've lost track
of how long I've been floating
here on swirling wafts
of smoke,
clouds formed from fires
that illuminate
everything I fucked up.
See,
I keep telling myself
it wasn't my fault
these fires took everything
I loved.
The easiest way to burn a fool
is to tell him he's fireproof.
Elegy: Death of the Righteous Woman
by Alexis Trisler
Blood boils, and in the fever, hearts burst;
All lives end and countless souls accursed
Lie desolate in this bitter and cruel age,
Stealing past us in cunning and foaming in rage
Whilst Wisdom stands in the streets, crying,
“Stop! Stop! Listen to my voice!
Life and death are both nigh,
but only you can make the choice.
But no one hears nor gives her honor to stay,
Saying, “I’ll wait upon Her words some other day,”
Numbly moving about their tedious lives,
Deafened to the thunder of Her sorrowful cries;
Whilst forlorn and with an ashen crown,
She, a phantom, glides ‘cross the ground,
Searching ‘til the end for someone, anyone –
Her time on Earth is nearly done.
Here lies Wisdom, for She could not endure:
Quantilla sapientia mundus regatur.
The King’s Valediction
by Alexis Trisler
Keep my name as thy psalm,
Oh disciple, and may my spirit live on
In thy words of remembrance;
Partake ye in the communion of my soul,
Lest thee my memory befoul
Through the lustful pride of thy existence.
Keep my name as thy shield,
Dear son, that it might yield
Thy salvation in the midst of the fray;
Wear it close to thee, that it might
Protect thy body and fix thy sight
Upon this our victory won today.
Keep my name as thy breath,
Sweet lover, and stay the death
By thy own hand that thou longest for;
Take me in as thy trembling sigh
That again this ghost may be alive
And our ecstasy be prolonged forevermore.
Keep my name in thy mind,
Little one, take these words and bind
Them to your hands as symbols of my love;
Hide them deep within your heart,
Keep them ever close when ye start
Down the lighted path that my wisdom speaks of.
anna at the tracks
by Kenneth West
trembling, she watches
the wheels revolve—grinding,
she thinks—like the gears
inside. her mind is a racehorse
galloping in a glue factory. she steps
with a waltz’s delicate
flourish, and then at once--
her ripped dress drags her
beneath. screeching, she enters
the elysium of unconsciousness
her body bruised blissful
beyond sight, sound, touch,
beyond anything--
except regret
arachne
by Kenneth West
i spin on strands
of silk, weaving words
that walk without regret
what to me is a deity’s scorn?
she’s a walking blunderbuss
bearing both spear and shield
she sprouted from the skull
of the lewdest, crudest god
who plunges on maidens—unmindful
of his ardor, like a thunderbolt
plummeting—from the clouds, a swimmer
diving deep into the flesh
of a dryad as she sighs and cries
wrecked and wounded by her first stabbing--
the stars offer no reprieve,
my darlings, you will die
not once, not twice, but ten-thousand
times unless you claim yourself--
take the disparate strands
and twirl them into a tapestry
of your own fashioning
i know the risk.
i too, have labored at art and lost
for when the goddess saw what i had woven
she reddened with rage
my frame twisted to an ugliness unfathomable
fanged with limbs that defied
enumeration. little did i know
that i would scuttle across the floor
forever followed by the terrible
thud of feckless feet.
letters, a.d. 43
by Kenneth West
lucius to mother
with my legion i have ventured
to an uncharted land, britannia--
where boreas’s breath blows harsh
and the inhabitants—have indigo bodies
that blend in with the night--
from one of them i took
a knife for the fatherland,
a stylus scraping
the poem of manhood
down my forearm--
the loss of blood and bile led
blindness—to occupy (fleetingly) my eyes
and i thought, mother,
that i would lose the gift--
you had given me, the torch you had lit,
but death lost his wager that day--
courage and love of country
supplanted
my—faltering—sword
i bashed
that barbarian’s head--
opening—a wound which cut clean
to the flesh, soft and white
as the tunics of home
mother to lucius
you are the first--
and last—fruit to fall from
this old tree; it delights me to see
you seize this world, knowing
that you will bring our family
glory, gold, and honor
perhaps—if jove wills it, you will one day
even become consul.
i remember the first time
you wore a toga,
and i had to help you
wrap it around--
head, arm, and shoulder.
when you left that day
i wept with the knowledge
that you were crossing the threshold
into the world of men
but tears will not expunge
the script of time’s too-quick passage
listen well:
don’t gamble,
be wary of whores,
wear your cloak, and cover
your ankles. i know
i should not say this—allow--
my feelings to supersede
affairs of state:
come back bearing your shield,
but please, baby, not on it.
rilke’s panther revisited
by Kenneth West
paris, 1917
last week—the panda died.
the keeper found him
with a bamboo stalk shoved
down the wrong pipe
and even now all of us wonder--
if it was the error
of age’s wrinkled hand
or the trembling uncertainty--
of the branch’s last leaf.
from where i stand
the bars wiggle and sway
like dancing girls with arms upraised,
their faces resplendent with earth’s red dust,
but the gift they bear
in their palms is grief.
and i think of the boys,
the boys who poke their fat fingers
in my cage—the boys with uncombed
hair and untied ties. the boys
who have already forgotten
their fathers, away at the front.
and i hear their mothers’ rushed whispers,
uttering exotic names like wilson
and pershing and clemenceau as if they were
olympian aborigines—shamans who could make
the dusty lungs of the dead trenchmen
once again suspire.
while licking my greying and gangrenous skin
i look out past the bars and the barbed wire,
and i think back—to when my coat was black
as the eyes of the dying men, their bodies
filled to the brim with adrenaline--
back to the jungle and the humid
summer nights spent biting the heads
off bonobos, and i know that if i could ask--
the great god clemenceau one question
i would ask to go back, back to begin again.
