Archive: Poetry

Forewarning: To keep the amount of pages to a minimum there are A LOT of poems on this page

Included in order: Winter's Daughter, First Love, The Inkwell, The Old Guitarist, Deadlines, A summer Two Years Ago, Hitchhiker, There's Art in Destroying a Soul, Variables and Constants, Her Body, Starve, Prelude to Creation, Mornings with Fowler Administration, Fat, Withering, The Little Boy Who Could, A Rainbow of Grays, Senioritis, A mouse Chasing a Cat, The Flickers, To and Fro

Winter's Daughter by Emma Lane

The winter’s daughter
is born when the leaves
cover the ground in shades
of Halloween and laughter
and bitter cold.

The bruises on my hands
turn brighter shades
of purple and blue
from the lack of sun
and from the abuse
from where the venom of your words
seeped into my skin
and eventually found their way into my brain
where they made an impression
of you in all of your glory.

Snowflakes twisting in the wind
of oncoming storms
tangle in my hair
and leave fake tears on my cheeks,
but I am glad because you cannot tell
which are genuine
and which are imposters.

The winter’s daughter’s nose
is red with frost
and the tips of her fingers are numb
with settling frostbite
that you don’t care about,
because you took her gloves
when you said she didn’t deserve them
and if she was going to leave
she should know her mistake
and that she would regret.
She would regret forever.
And, deep in your heart
in all the crevices and chasms
where you hide your feelings
among your opinions,
you know that you prefer
the summer’s daughter more.

Photograph by Laurel Anderson

First Love by Kierra Coutts

We danced.
I felt the soothing rumble of his deep voice My head against his chest as he sang along
Lips mouthing romantic words of acceptance against my hair
Like he was singing to me about loving my curves and my imperfections
We danced.

My head couldn't rest in the crook of his neck, I was far too short
So I settled for his shoulder

I buried my face there as my lips moved against it
Mouthing the same words he sang into my ear through all my hair
I was singing to him, desperate to make him understand
I loved him
We danced.
My arms perched at the top of his shoulders, meeting behind his neck
I recklessly let my thumb caress the skin just below where his hair ended

He pressed his cheek tighter against the side of my head
We danced.
I couldn't help but feel I was meant to be there with him
To the perfect song,
We danced.

The Inkwell by Seth Turnage

Likes raindrops pulled into the arms of the Earth as God cries away the sins of man,
Washing away drought and breathing fertility into these forgotten lands.
Watery ink weaves together a story that flows through every vein,
Every artery,
Every pore from which life seeps,

Coarsely written like chalk lines on a concrete sidewalk,
Few understand the words that flow from my rough leathery bindings,
The sovereign messages of lightly spilled ink and chaotic voices,
Entangled among the skewed minds of the doubtful,
Beaten down by the screams of angered men,
The skeptics too afraid to look past the surface,
Perplexed by the oddities infused with my familiar words,
Many of them lose their meanings.
Just as a faint puff of powder blown into the air by a pair of gentle lips,
The saga of words dissipate into the open expanse,
Too afraid to learn what lies beneath the tattered pages.

Artwork by Seth Turnage

The Old Guitarist by Tatum Mann
(Inspired by the work of Pablo Picasso)

The old guitarist sits curbside, blue,
asking help from every passerby
with the echo of metallic percussion; the song of Change
thrumming inside a beaten plastic cup.
The people call him Roof,
just as the suited man’s wife calls him Love,
because in this world
we like to name each other
for the things we live without.

The man himself is silent,
but writes harmonies of peace on the flesh of his cracked hands,
embedding indigo ink into his palm prints--tracing the Life line,
the Head line, and the Heart. When he sleeps,
his restless bones to creak like old furniture accepting a body,
and when he dreams, it’s of red canyons,
of something hollow and vast enough
to hold every grain of sand
and drop of ink that resides within him.

When he was a child, his father
would pluck a brassy, mellow song on the strings of the Spanish instrument,
a reverberating sound that rumbled within each of their chests
like a heartbeat or a gentle storm. His mother would hum along
as she sliced plums and peaches in the kitchen,
putting her knife down only to teach the boy to dance; to show him
how to use the woven harmonies
to make something beautiful and honest from his body.

Now the man’s throat resembles the beaten neck of a guitar, strung out
but proud--often strumming a strange, wordless melody
as his weary frame bends toward the pavement.
Depending on the angle at which he is observed,
his hunch resembles the slumping burden of a dying home
or the ease of a final bow, to mirror the closing lilt of his tune.
If you are brave enough to ask him why,
he will tell you:
the weight of the love I have felt
is moving and crippling,
and I must bend to the Earth to thank it
for all the ways it has strained me.

Deadlines by Anna Biddle

You say “this is it.”
You’ve hit rock bottom hard, this time.
Crying alone; it’s 1 am and you have a paper due tomorrow –
the one assignment you hoped would pull you out of this tumbling sink hole.

But anxiety hit right when you didn’t need it--
hit you right in the heart, where you held on to that last strand of hope.

Your mind is a series of dark caverns but you’ve never wandered this far
into the blackness before.

There are no directions on the walls, no bright exit signs telling you
How to escape this asylum you didn’t know existed.
Only strange symbols, written in a language you can’t read,
tempting you towards the last resorts you never thought you’d have to face.

Like Virginia Woolf you remember that if nothing else, there’s death.
There’s always death.

Searching through your arsenal of last-minute remedies you concoct a poison
so potent that even the most experienced medicine men wouldn’t have the magic to save you.
But you’re going to need something to wash this dagger down with…
You walk into the kitchen,
reaching for a glass of water, you see last year’s family portrait.
It stops you. Your running momentum ceases
and you’re forced to slow down and stare for a while.

You notice your father’s bright blue eyes and how they perfectly match the sea foam shade of the coastal ocean backdrop– the same ones he gave to you and your brother.

That was the best vacation you’d ever had. It’s when your mom first taught you
to apply mascara, when your dad taught how to you to dig for clams,
and when you promised yourself you would see the world someday.

So far you’ve only been to ten different states – plus Disneyland but that isn’t even close
to the thumb-tack filled world map you originally had in mind.

You wanted to go to Brazil, to stand in streets of Rio de Janeiro during Carnival.
You wanted to hike through the Ural mountains and taste real Easter Babka,
not just the kind your cousins try to recreate on the holidays.

You think of all the cityscapes you haven’t seen, all the rich roasted coffee you’ve never tasted,
and all the oceans you haven’t dipped your feet in …
every memory, like the long-lost relative you never got to meet.

You have so much time, yet --
so many years to grow, and people to know and places to explore.

The world is a lot bigger than the kitchen you’re standing in,
and there are so many ways to go forward that don’t involve downing a bottle of anti-depressants.
They aren’t the easy or the only way out of here.

You choose to leave them on the table.
Able to breathe again, you walk upstairs and go to bed.

You will finish the paper tomorrow.

Photograph by Laurel Anderson

A Summer Two Years Ago by Condor Hall

The centipede who lived in my kitchen for fifteen days,
across the room and above the granite countertop,
with a stillness nearly like moss,
crowned me Tsar of The Cesspits
in a quiet coronation right before nine.

In the morning after being ordained,
I drove out into the country
through waves of orange noise,
letting my nude arms float against the breeze,
attacking the world with a larvicolous apathy.

My lover, a yellow-tongued woman,
(the one who greedily gobbled the sun)
joined me that day wearing a cloud of turpentine perfume.
Waiting for the man in the moon to hiss a tired tune,
by the river, we planted dozens of azaleas for the Earth to eat.

And we serenaded for the forest fires,
we nightingales loved only by worms –
who bent our pulp to the beat of the swaying trees,
anticipating the second we rip off our talismans and tiaras of salt
to rally with a confetti of blue-buzzing flies.

An Island in the Caspian Sea by Condor Hall

When I fell out of the sky, I entered
some pit of triviality, a muffled void.
The Imp of Rods struck me
and I became a grain of sand.

Now it is time to fade into the air
alone to that island in the Caspian Sea,
a place where the wind is dastardly
and a distorted evening makes the crow croak,
with treason seething in her blood,
a handful of teeth, and a pocket full of gold.

Our flesh peels off to the sea
against the animated waves.
We camp on the eroded rocks,
in the stench of the salt and death.

That night I saw a cricket die, without struggle.
It sprung into the bowels of our fire,
its sweet song to be silenced forever.
At our feet, the sea tempts us with its pearls and silk.
Marooned under the four winds, we lie
homesick and wishing we could fly.

Hitchhiker to Idaho by Matthew Presite

If my thumb is out it means I've given up and need a lift
to the nearest gas station or a zoo, or maybe that cheap mall along the highway
where none of the rundown shops take credit cards. I'd love a job there, counting
cash dollar by dollar and counting mistakes penny by penny.

I'd be rich in no time.

If my thumb is down it means you've given up on me
and all the flowers I picked that were really just dressed up weeds are defunct
so it's time to drown that green thumb in a bowl of cool soup and trace
the noodles like a roadmap to a better town with nicer girls.

I'd be cool as Elvis on his first tv appearance.

If my thumb is up it means my luck's finally changed
and the rabbit's foot I found in the bottom of a dryer at the laundromat's
still got some good left in it. I've hitched it to the loop on my jeans and let it
work its magic. Time to button up my shirt and slip that deck of cards
out of my back pocket. All aces and kings in my palms.

I'd be a full house every time.

There’s Art in Destroying a Soul by Kristian Cooper

These words are lonely remnants of forbidden fruit
That drip and dribble from the bow of my lips.
I ask you if you understand,
My love, you have to understand...
I am no longer the Eve that fell in love with you
I’ve been tormenting myself night and day with the same questions:
Do I want to be with someone else?
Or be with someone else?
I tell you I’m not so sure about the tree, the fruit, us.
I tell you that I’m not so sure about soulmates anymore
And it’s in that miserable moment the monsoon graces your cheeks,
That I realize there’s serenity in destruction.
I am your calm before the storm and your storm before the calm.
From conception, God’s plan for you was the complete obliteration of peace.
My love, I am so sorry that this is how you will remember me.

Variables and Constants by Griffin O'Hagan

All the lives I have led, have led me right to this moment.
Every decision, life or death, or what color to wear.
Constants and Variables.

The sun and the moon, the ocean and the forest, the last and the first.
Now, reverse all of them. What are you left with?

I’ve waited for you forever, and I'm still waiting somewhere
Or, someplace or sometime.
There are thousands of versions of what just happened
Except, every single one ends the same

You leaving me.

The moon and the sun, the forest and the ocean, the last and the first.
We are left with the choice between having no choice at all
And not having asked the question in the first place.

Relativity is a sensibility.
And the theory a reality.

Two roads diverged,
And I took the road traveled by thousands.

And it’s made almost no difference.

Her Body by Ames Williford

her body

cosmic warfare
courses through her veins

galactic clots
building borders
capped with barbed wire
and shattered mirrors

battles waging
between
intellect
and anatomy

a paradoxical temple
trapping her
she crouches with impotent hands clasped in invocation
attempting to plead with the divinity she can’t rely on

her frame straining
to replant and regrow
the adoring blooms
destroyed by every vile flare

fragile roots only beginning to take hold
slashed by an astronomical sword
subconscious lacerations
materializing

tearing away every ridge
crippling legs that boast bruised craters and rose scars
silencing a fractured voice
before it can utter the three words

an ecosystem obliterated by internalized hostilities
a deteriorating soul
comprising of two radioactive parties
continuously destroying her vitality and their only mean of existence

all that remains
of this extraterrestrial war

is a mouth packed with star dust
and veins gushing dark matter

Starve by Brooklyn Norrell

I’ll worship you.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll sacrifice myself,
To keep your sunlight.
I’ll drain my sins,
To my lovers knife.
I’ll love the deathless death,
To demand your innocence.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll worship you.

Prelude to Creation by Kristian Cooper

Adam
–Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.
-Poppy Z. Brite

Lately,
When I rise before the sun,
I linger between the drywall and framework.
A comfortable place,
To wrench flesh from bone.

Eve
–I have called on the Goddess and found her within myself.
-Marion Z. Bradley

I’ve found it increasingly impossible to recollect Myself.
The last person I remember being was tucked between the folds of a sofa,
enraptured in violent convulsions A voice resembling divinity ask me
if I’ve fasted. Tells me, What needs to be revealed will, in due time, reveal itself.”
I go thirty days and thirty-one nights without sleep, swallow swords,
and brave warm coals. Near the end of my cycle, I begin to levitate.
Trees
uproot,
clouds
part
to make way for the second coming of Christ.

Sabbath
–What we encounter in works of art and philosophy are objective versions of our own pains and struggles, evoked and define in sound, language, or image.
-Alain de Botton
Following sanctification,
did She look upon the earth
and see Herself?
Is She able to recognize deficiency?

Mornings with Fowler Administration by Fran Bixby, Priscilla Perdue, and Sue Hench

Orange. Orange. Orange.
There’s general joy in the hallway.
Mrs. Perdue is here.

I don’t have a dealer
You have a dealer
A car dealer?
Shut up, no way!

Stop looking for her!
I love Crayola Markers and Sprinkles,
I had a dream you were a werewolf.

And that is how our days begin.

Oh wait.
That’s not Panic! At the Disco
Nevermind.

Fat by Victoria Waring

I don’t know why they hate me
They pinch me, pull me, and try to lose me
As my existence defines theirs
As if my persistence destroys theirs

I give them energy to live laugh love and fight
I make them soft to cuddle with on a winter’s night
I absorb shock and keep them warm
Yet no matter what I do they want me gone

Such stigma such disgust clings to my good name
I’ve become something terrible people wish to tame
Those who have done everything to get rid of me
Should be looked upon with great sympathy

I mean no harm, the opposite in fact
As long as you keep me safely in check
No need to worry how much of me you have
I promise I’m really not so bad

Photograph used under license by Beverley Goodwin

Withering by Emma Stephens

You look at me with eyes I don’t recognize
The threat
Of your manic thoughts exploding in your desperate brain
Terrifies me
Because it excites you.
I do not know who you are anymore
When you look at me with those eyes I don’t recognize
And the fragile, possessed mind
That I used to admire
When I knew who you were

You get elated
Then frustrated
When you inflate like a balloon
With irrational dreams of unbridled futures
With no rules
Then we deflate you
Because there ARE rules
Because you need to survive
And because we know those wild promises
Are lies to yourself

You want
To fly away from your life
You want
To run away from your own war
And the irreconcilable damage
That your poisoned brain made you believe
Was happiness
When in reality
Your poisoned brain
Started a war
That nearly killed you
That nearly killed you in me

I can still remember when
My biggest problem was self-confidence
It was back then
When our arguments were about the radio,
And the weather,
And about your haircut that was too short.
That was a long time ago

Now we don’t argue
Now we don’t speak
Because I am afraid of what you’ll say
I’m afraid
That the person I used to understand
Is really gone
That the things we will argue about
Will have to do with life
And choices
But I’m not ready.

I am not prepared, to face the reality that
You chose a plant and a pill
Over 18 years of values
Over 18 years of trust
And over me

The Little Boy Who Could by Kalysta Bush

At 9 months he realized he could walk
At the age of 1 he realized he could talk
The world was at his fingertips as he discovered something new
Like how to walk or even how to tie his shoe
At 12 he learned to ride a bike
At age 13 he met his best friend Mike
With each passing year came new knowledge
At 15 he hoped to go to college
At 16 he watched his father beat his mother
He realized it was his job to protect his brother
He stood up with his fists and voice steady
At 18 he realized his father had to go
This was the hard truth he forced himself to know
That night after his dad walked out
And he watched as his mother begin to shout
He realized it was up to him to be the man
He realized it was up to him to take a stand
At 20 he worked hard to support his mother
At 21 he had to be the father to his brother
He wouldn’t, couldn’t let him grow up like he had
But he wouldn’t, couldn’t let him grow up without a dad
At 26 he watched as his mother slowly died
He watched as his brother collapsed and cried
The pain that he knew at such a young age
The pain that he knew would eventually morph into rage
At 29 he watched as his brother went on his first date
He reminded him not to be out too late
The advice a father should give a son
He realized just then, it was he who won.

A Rainbow of Grays by Ellen Diehl

Sitting by a road of yellow brick
makes me wonder of all the colors, why?
and if the sun looking down wished it could frown
to see a speck stolen from the sky.
If the sun had a brick
for every time it was made to grin,
it would be a long road, indeed,
but even a thousand smiles
couldn't build
a long enough road
To happiness.
The other side will always be more green,
the Cities more keen,
and the grass always sharpened to
an Emerald prick.
"Rainbows have nothing to hide."
Yet that which disappears is always mystery
we call it history
because we have such a hard time
reading the past.
You told me once to read an emerald book,
but it was less green than I thought it would be.
The insides were browned, some,
and it aged me some too.
I wonder now if you asked
so that I would gain some gray
and I did.
I now see gray everywhere-
under the furniture
in the sky
in places where it could be dark but the light won't give in
and I see now
when things are not so black and white
why the Witch was green with jealousy
when she lost her sister's shoes.

Senioritis by Eric Harris

Senioritis is
The true silent killer. You don’t see it coming.
Freshman year flies by
And then junior year takes it out of you
Senior year hits you in the face, and you suddenly become lazy.
Some prepare for class
But unless you’re in the running for valedictorian, you don’t.
Senioritis will kill you
Eventually.
Like getting the X-Grade and dropping out.
Senioritis is me writing this
5 mins before class starts.
Senioritis is my GPA dropping from a 4.0 to mid 2s
Since my motivated freshman self.
Senioritis is being too lazy
to even

Photograph used under license by Dee Ashley

Photograph by Derek Wise

A mouse Chasing a Cat by Olivia Boyd

It's like a mouse chasing a cat.
That's how this cycle feels.
The innocent fell in love,
with the killer.
You, my dear mouse,
don't know,
you should stay far away.
I'm a killer,
I'm evil,
I'm nothing.
You're full of beauty,
sweetness,
and innocence
Stay away.
All I'll do is damage you.
I can’t control myself.
The monster inside its cage,
it tries to free itself from me.
Sweet mouse,
Stay away from cats like me.

The Flickers by Anonymous

they flicker.
as if the room is experiencing a thunderstorm.
on and off in a cycle that gets shorter and shorter.
they live in the wires.
deciding everyone's times.

like a hand passing through a candle they give warnings
only you can see
the casual flicker of light no one else notices.

as the room plunges into darkness for a microsecond you ask.
                                                                                                                                         no one
answers you want to hear.
you need to have some reassurance.
you need to be certain they aren't coming.
but they are.

and the flickers happen more and more frequently until
snap.

                                                                                                                                          it all ends.
some don't make it to the end.
for some it's too much.
the blinking no one else sees.
slowly driving them off the cliff of sanity.
they go clutching their heads with a mad look of despair.

no one sees.
no one believes.
not until they too are experiencing the flashes of darkness.
not until they too are in the grips of insanity.
the ones in the wires decide.

when will they come?
where will they come?
but then there are some.
who pass through the flickering
                                                                                                                                    and survive.

the few that do see the blinking get more and more frequent.
the few that do know pain.

and the few that do end up in the dark.

Photograph by Tatiana Eatough

To and Fro by Anonymous

All together like forks in a drawer
We enter what opens at the end.
My mind is at home but my body is travelling
And I enter a world of surreal suspense.
It is influenced by the beat of the path,
But in a heartbeat the world is gone,
Annoyingly replaced by a shrill broken record.
I turn to see the flashing landscape
Only to see a desolate wasteland.
The draining monotony unveils anxiety
And the hours of idling are pointless
So as the fog engulfs us, I wait.
Are we there yet?

The time passed like sand in an hourglass
But what was coming would infuse life in me once more.
The time has come at last
Where we enter what was once open
It is no longer a prison, but a welcomed escape.
A place of happiness and excitement.
No drowsy bears in this world,
No annoying flies,
No more fog or rain or bumpy path,
Instead sunshine caresses my face
And fills me to the top.
Deep down however
The dread of the journey lingers.

I recognize that all good things end
And nature will bring back the pain,
Though on this glorious day,

We are finally there.