Poetry 2009-2010

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Poetry 2009-2010
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Morning

By Kaitlin Awe

Second star on the right and strait on till morning
When boys were icky
When love meant kissing
When kissing was gross
The time of make believe
_____Wishes...
________Dreams...

When escape was an imagination away
Second star on the right and straight on till morning
When time was submersed in
_____Wishes...
________Dreams...
You can fly! You can fly! You can fly!
to me.

That life has past,
We’ve bid farewell.
But we cling
To the simplicity
Don’t say goodbye, goodbye means leaving...
and leaving means forgetting...

If love is a dream,
Sunday is waking up.
Move along, no time to make believe
We wish for more time...
We dream of time spent, of time to come...

Sunday means leaving
Sunday means saying goodbye
Don’t say goodbye, goodbye means leaving...
a nd leaving means forgetting...

We cling to Never Land
We hold on to each other
Sunday comes, still
We leave
and promise not to forget.

Maelstrom
By Justin Busch

The lights in the express bus dim for lethargic countenance.
but I am wide awake, in my lingering vessel.
The foreign world on the other side of this glass
illuminates its beacons and guides our transport along

an eight-lane boulevard into the depths of the incandescence.
I inhale sharply, abruptly aware of life’s new velocity
and the taillights blurring past us.

As we slip through the threshold into the epicenter
bathing in glimmering brilliance, my eyes slowly
compose themselves. Structures seem crowded as do
faces meandering on the sidewalks, in doorways, and at sale carts.

The first step off the bus and into the ambiance is intoxicating
and overwhelming. Faces speaking a language I have not yet learned,
details of smell overpowering rational thought process.

Behind the lights, darkness
Beyond exoticism, revelations
Behind my eyes,
Secrets will disentangle.



Summer Memory
By Rosa Jundt

Your words caressed just like a lover
that summer. Our friendship turned to heat
it flows in a constant reminder…

June, July, and August we were together.
Holding hands on the beach and in the backseat
your words caressed just like a lover.

Each bright, new day I was eager
to greet the morning sun’s heat
It flows in a constant reminder…

The gentle words you’d whisper
Nothing since could be as sweet…
your words caressed just like a lover.

In a short time, I was changed forever.
And just like my heart, the memory beats…
It flows as a constant reminder.

I can look back at that passionate summer
With no regrets at the memory of you. I’ll keep
Your words caressed just like a lover
as they flow as a constant reminder.



Lay Me Away
By D.R. Kennedy

Curled up tightly in a ball,
Beside an insipid oak tree,
Did my soul fall and then call
For someone to set me free.

Loneliness, Pain, Regret and Remorse
Play with me the livelong day.
They lash out at me in full force,
Willed to make me pay.

No matter where I run at all,
No matter where I go,
I'm still just curled up in a ball
Looking for a place to grow.

Someone somewhere please pick my seed
And take me where you may,
Before I wither up and bleed
Exactly where I lay.



High School Students
By Rose Long

Each Student is different
They lead different lives
Have different opinions
Handle things in different ways
But they are all reaching for the same goal together.

Each Student struggles
Struggles to fit in
Struggles to stand out
Struggles to be independent
Struggles to be accepted
But they are all reaching for the same goal together.

That goal is Graduation and the Future
Each student has termination to reach this goal
Each for their own reasons
Each student is different in how they are approaching this goal
But they are reaching for this goal together as a class.

So cherish the memories along the way
Cherish the time with the people all around you
Family, Friends, Classmates, and Teachers
Soon each one of you will be going in different directions
And the memories will be all that you have.

So enjoy the time together as you are reaching for this goal
Of Graduation and the Future
And remember to have fun
Because soon the time together will be over
And the memories will be all that you have.



Heaven
By Bryce Mills

Heaven is the trick
The troll under the bridge
The goats with a lie to save the day
The day is lost and the troll is gone
Heaven is a card trick
All the cards are the same
Not a single Ace in the deck
Not a single one is your card
Heaven is the prize
A ring in the Cracker Jack box
A ring to bring happiness forever
They don't make rings anymore
Heaven is a joke
A comic on the stage
Speaking the words
To an unlaughing audience
Heaven is the bait
A cat after the nip
The god dangling it above
Just to make you jump up and never reach
Heaven is the Hoax
It's just a lie
A lullaby for the kids
A Santa Claus no one wants to give up believing
There is no one delivering the presents
No reindeer
No jolly old man
There is no heaven
Go to bed and dream it's not a lie
Go to bed and sleep eternal
Sleep away in your heaven

cut

By K. K. Nixon

You've been cut so many times you cannot speak

Only you never knew you've been cut

You've been cut so many times you cannot breath

the air has been sucked out

language fails you

you're on your own

Speechless gestures

uncertainty

stumbling

mumbling

cut

And only just found out

you try

reconnect

people

family

friends

you must redefine

cut off

Only this time

its your fault

You shut Him down

shut Him off

shut Him up

He'd help you

if only you try

if only you listen

Instead you've placed Him on a shelf

where he collects dust

Patiently Waiting

Patiently Watching

Loving you with all your faults

Patiently waiting to bind the wounds

you cut

Ghostee
By Kaitlin Reed

I’m sorry we had to flush you.
You were a cute little fish.

You were white and orange and fat.
Your little eyes were buggy and round.

You always made those weird, little faces
While swimming with your fellow fishies.

You liked to swim around in your little tank
And eat all those little fish flakes for lunch.

You could always be found in your cave
Or playing dead at the bottom of your bowl.

Then one day we realized you weren’t playing
when you stuck to a plant floating near the top.

If only we had disposed of you right away,
We wouldn’t have had to throw the fake plant, too.

Poetry 2003-2004

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Poetry 2003-2004
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Compromise
After Jim Simmerman’s “the Last Word”
By Amanda Beuchler

You can have the brilliant
Shooting stars,
if I can have
their star dust.

You can have the pot of gold
at the rainbow’s end,
if I can stay to watch
until it disappears.

You can have all the words
in every language,
if I can have the universal expression
of kindness- -a smile.

You can answer the door
each time opportunity knocks,
if I can get a foot in the door
just once.
You can have the singing birds
and crisp morning air,
if I can have the exhilaration
of the rising sun.

You can have the trophies,
The recognition and the honor,
if I can have one
great achievement.

You can have the laughs,
smiles and hugs,
if I can cherish
every moment.

You can have the ups
and downs of life,
if I can have the one moment
it all makes sense.

To Be Five Again
By Ashley Brockasus

At the age of five, I wanted my own pair of jelly shoes.
At the age of six, I wanted to becom a Transformer.
At the age of seven, I wanted a banana seat bike with
pulped streamers.
At the age of eight, I wanted to meet Alf.
At the age of nine, I wanted an American Girl doll.

At the age of ten, I wanted to attend a New Kids on the
Block concert.
At the age of eleven, all I wanted was to go home.
Being the ‘new kid on the block’ was not all it was
cracked out to be.
At the age of twelve, I wanted my own room.
At the age of thirteen, I wanted a reversible Adidas coat.
At the age of fourteen, all I wanted was to be ‘popular.’
At the age of fifteen, I didn’t know what I wanted.
At the age of sixteen, all I wanted, besides a brand new
car, was freedom.
At the age of seventeen, I wanted to hurry up and turn
eighteen.
At the age of eighteen, I wanted to get the hell out of the
house!

At the age of nineteen, I wanted the holidays to come
sooner so I could go back home.
At the age of twenty all I wanted was a boyfriend, a good
job, money and some kind of education.
Now at the age of twenty-one, all I want is to be five
again.

A Vacant Room

By Barb Gunderson

Sink into the moon

Summer stars

Shine warm and bright

Sorrows slip

So far away

Swallowed by

Your arms tonight

Past has lost its

Grasp on me

And future waits

So very still

Two worlds collide

In darkened shadows

A moment sways

The son plays on

Deepened by

The rising tide

Then I awake

A vacant room

With nothing but

A dream of you

Stolen by the light

No Road Can Take Me

By Barb Gunderson

Rain Clouds, carry me away

Wind, serenade me home

I have given all I can

to a cold and empty hole

In this life I will live to see

my childish dreams grow old

No road can take me to the place

my body aches to go

My mind will journey on an endless sea

until I reach my goal

And there beyond this blue gray sky

waits the freedom for my soul

I Didn’t Understand
By Lynn M. Isackson

I stood back and questioned.
I moved to get a better look.
I waited for you to push me away.
I didn’t understand.

I wondered why you didn’t punish me.
Why you weren’t the first to throw the stone,
When you heard what I had done.
I didn’t understand.

I followed you, and washed your feet with my tears,
While others mocked me and shunned me.
You said I had faith greater than the teachers.
I didn’t understand.

You didn’t want my body.
You wanted my soul.
Didn’t shun my feminine mind when I said,
I didn’t understand.

You said your life would be short.
That you would die,
But never see death.
I didn’t understand.

I claimed you to be a prophet,
I followed you,
Safety in your flock, but
I didn’t understand.

The called you criminal.
The same who loved you,
Hunted you down to kill your peaceful being.
I didn’t understand.

They cast lots for your clothes
Hung you to die on a tree.
They killed the man who wanted peasce and wanted love.
I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.

I watched you die.
The precious blood fell from your body.
I stood in horror.
I didn’t understand.

Three days later, the tomb stood empty.
Hundreds of people you showed yourself to.
A messenger of love, a savior of the damned.
I understand. I understand.

Your sacrifice. Where I should have burned.
Your humiliation, where I should have been stoned.
Your death.
My life.
I understand.

Soul Cages
By Lynn M. Isackson

You’ve given her a place for her soul to dwell,
A cage of flesh and blood.
She paces the layers begging to be let out,
Begging for freedom,
Out of captivity into the unknown.

The sparrow flies out,
Her song sings lonely.
Songbird songbird sing to thee,
Until the cat gets her and she can sing no more to thee.

Close your eyes,
Drift into the abyss,
Confinement forgotten.
She flies away.
The cage melts,
Her song remains,
Sweet and haunting,
Free and beautiful.

She awaits the calm horizon,
Blue, purple, and red,
Like blood shed on the day.
She awaits the pacified sea,
Where the ships will take her,
To the maker of the souls.
Then her confinement ends.
And the cage is no more.

This is us as I Remember.
(an ode to friendship)
By Lynn M. Isackson

One tall and slender,
A poet. A writer.
A lover of music.

One blonde and full of beauty,
A thinker.
Quiet and full of words never spoken.

One with long dark hair,
Wanting romance. Waiting impatiently for love.
A singer. An artist.

Pointing into nowhere,
They looked into the future.
Sisters half by blood, all by love.

Winter crept, trees bare and gnarled
Covered in Romantic white gowns
Freezing wind hitting against their solitude.

With wide eyes they wondered,
Speaking of candle-lit dreams,
Expecting what they couldn’t see,
And seeing what they could never expect.

Dreams of what they might do,
Together.
Apart.
Planning of things that would never be,
When time changes and seasons end,
They separate.

One found solace I solitude.
One found comfort in her sister.
One found peace down an old dirt road.

Huddled together, they still share their dreams.
Worlds apart; a life away.
Change haunts them.

They separate.
They will always be.
Friends, sisters.
Half by blood all by love.

Wake
By Lynn M. Isackson

Out of a Lucid Wake I’ve forced myself to forget
YOU.
I’ve placed you in a part of my mind
FAR IN THE CORNERS
Where memories can’t haunt me
YOU CAN’T MAKE ME CRY.

My dreams steal you
IN THAT FORGOTTEN PLACE
Where my heart wouldn’t mingle
WITH WHAT WASN’T MINE.

I remember that
I LOVED YOU
I see
THE FOGGY IMAGE OF LOVE
Within the empty places where I dream.

I SURVIVE
You haunt me
TAKE AWAY MY SANITY
Enter my dreams
I GO ON HOPEFUL

Until I fall from slumber
AND YOU ARE GONE
I say good bye all over.
IN MY WAKE.

And it’s only Monday
By Malene Little

Assignments for every class
Test next week, but I haven’t studied yet
Behind in innumerable readings
I’m a failed student

Working too many hours to stay sane
Working too few to buy everything we want
There’s always more month than money
I feel I should be able to do better

Laundry and dishes piling up
Vacuuming, dusting, straightening to do
The kid’s room should be condemned
At least I can’t be fired from my housework

Not reading to the kids enough
Not play with them enough
Not spending enough time with them
My parents were never this lazy

Burned out and frustrated
Disappointed in myself
“What do you mean I should get more rest?”
There’s not enough time for all I’m doing now!




From Across the Room
By Randy Little

I see you from across the room
So close and so far away

Your eyes suddenly meet mine
They see me seeing you

I flush and quickly look away
As if you’ve burned me

I try to resist the urge
But I must look

I see your face again
But your eyes see past me now

There I want to tell you

If I came to you and spoke
Would you listen?

And if you listened
What would you say?

I try to hide my fear
And slowly stand up

But before I can move
He is there

He stands where I would have stood
And leans close to you

Then you blush
Your hand covers your burning face

And he speaks the words
That I lacked the courage to say…

“There is booger on your nose”

My Poem
By Randy Little

this is my poem
to keep it simple
i left a few things out

there are no capitals
or proper grammar
or messy punctuation

any elaborate form
or fancy rhyme or reason
was removed

no snakes
or snails
or puppy dog tails

no mention of
the toils of love
or the spoils of war

any happiness
or misery
i left out

no day or night
nor time
nor season
any of these things
would just clutter
my poem

and when Ii removed them
all i was left with
was this…

The Old Man on the Corner
By Randy Little

there’s an old man who sits
in an old chair
outside a small corner store

before him is a table
and on it
sits a chess board

one hand has a shaky grip
on the head of a wooden cane

the other cradles his face
one spidery finger
tapping at his temple

it was by chance I stopped
out for a drive
just passing through

down went my window
in came the heat
stifling and oppressive

I shaded my eyes
and called to him,
“where does this road lead?”

slowly he stood up
clutching his cane
and walked towards me

his watery eyes met mine
as he spoke
his crooked hands gestured

“just down here a ways
you pass a cinder
that was one time a school

the walls blackened by soot
almost a coverin’
the hate spray-paint there

past that is the park
hungry kids a’playin’
on rusty swings and dying trees

there they’s stepping on pointy
shiny things
and rocks that ain’t really rocks

next come the dusty, dry houses
paint a’peeling
cobwebb’d cars on the brown grass

them inside pretendin’ not to hear
as Jehovah’s hounds
is scratchin’ at the door

up a bit there’s the church
a few strained voices
beltin’ out a tuneless prayer

some almost lives there
but I think God
He done moved out long ago

last you finds the bone yard
row after row
of wooden crosses faded names

some of ‘em is old
and some of ‘em
young names without a story to tell”

then he tipped his hat
and he shuffled
back to his old chair

losing himself again
in the game
on the table before him

I saw he was in check
and I wondered
how many moves he had left

rolling up the window
feeling the cool air I
put the car in gear

then with one last look
I turned around
and returned the way I came

Awakened End
By Joy Mckinney

Impatience, itself,
In the flesh
Just waiting to be
Consumed
Beyond this thick
Bark can be found
A woman

Virtues a-plenty,
(or so she’s been told)
Lacking at least one
Despite all of her toils
Admittedly taken,
Taken aback
As a salmon struggling
Upstream
Strong as an oak
Yet feeble
As a twig

Heart, soul, mind…
All accounted for,
Yet somehow
Incomplete

Ever-striving to reach
Calm waters ahead
Where this life can end
And the next
Awake

Significance

By Joy Mckinney

The afternoon sun splits the delicate sky

Staring hills, trickling streams, sympathetic trees…

There is no need for patience here

Caught off-guard by the gleaming snow,

Icy wind nibbling my skin,

I exhale smoky, misty breath

I feel a sense of insignificance was over me

In this grand spectacle of nature

And yet…

Gazing at the troubled drifting snow,

Spiteful brush, dying grass, resistant tree,

I realize I’m a part of everything

We’re all caught up in the ground blizzard of life

Shifting, glancing, hoping

I’m strapped in the readying for the ride

Paint another winged cloud in the sky,

Another fiery ridge on the horizon

And I’m ready

I’m on my way.

A Mathematical Nightmare
By JoAnne Taylor

Count me in, count me out,
count me anything at all…
Just don’t subtract me from the equation,
don’t multiply my equations
by dividing your attention
that won’t equal out.
So let’s figure all our differences
and if you could just tell me y
you fed me all those imaginary numbers?
and I could quit coming up with the wrong answers
to an unsolvable problem.
So for right now I will just fraction out my favorite pi
and x you out of my thoughts
until we get this relationship graded.

Not My Day
By JoAnne Taylor

The sky looks a little crowded
Too many stars already~
Shooting twinkly wishing falling…
So right here I’ll stay.
On the beach, in the sea
The star of the deep~
Laying staying waiting longing…
Two different worlds
Brothers staring for infinity~
Frozen fallen forgotten forever…

On Being Brought from my Comfy Bed to Enlightenment Class

(Dedicated to Dr. Lysbeth Benkert-Rasmussen)
By JoAnne Taylor

Twas my alarm clock brought me from my comfy bead
And my cleared those dreams from my sleepy head.
I learned about satires, and read Moll Flanders too
When once I, Hobbes, and Locke neither sought nor knew.
Some view Enlightenment with scornful eye,
“Read Candide: I’d rather die!”
Remember, students, though you’d rather be hitting the hay
Sleeping through class will not earn you an A.

Sleep
By JoAnne Taylor

On the brink of something…
Hanging over the edge
Knocking pebbles into the canyon
Purple, blue, green mist
Swirling oblivion, far away
…and yet so close…
Peacefulness- - close enough
Just reach out and grab it.
Balance thrown off,
Weightlessness takes over
Crash through the mist
From the brink
Something spectacular.

Poetry 2005-2006

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Poetry 2005-2006
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Forensics
By Nick Elits

The highway stretched out far into the freezing distance
Our travels made us weary and we longed for home
A car sat quite and solemn near a Bridge
Nestled in the security of the snow
It was freshly abandoned and still warm from its occupants
Under each Bridge was a new body which told its own fleshly tale
And each story told only of the deed that had been done
Masking the details in obscurity
The sun was smothered by dark foreboding clouds
They foretold the beginning of the end
The Earthly machine in the dead of winter
Began to cave in upon itself
Once so efficient and bureaucratic
It now struggled to sustain its own existence
Society started to crumble
The wrench in the machine was too hard to find
And it bled to death
The harsh reality of the revelation was frightening
I felt alone in my madness so I reached out for you
You gave me your comfort and I asked for a kiss
Because “the end of the world is surely upon us”
You held my hand and said “fall into it” and I did
I was afraid …I was afraid of the machine
I was afraid of what we’d become
And if the machine wasn’t going to let me be
Then maybe it better I not be
So from that day on I let my body tell the story
The forensic artists will know what I have done
They will see my deeds but like the others I will wear my mask
Keeping the details somewhere deep in the bowels of Oblivion
I will be one more body floating down the River Styx
For it not worth my Soul
To have the latest medical technology
For it not worth my Soul
To have mastered the elements
For it not worth my Soul
To be Sane
So here I float Upon the River Styx
Waiting to be judged…
Because the machine is society and the wrench is Science
Science is the vehicle by which we lose faith
And when the magic is gone we will cease
to live
Our sole concern will be for the product of the machine
Which is the existence of itself.



Ghost Dance
By Nick Eltis

While traveling from Sioux Falls to Spencer
I heard a roaring crash on the highway
Like stumbling onto an unseen disaster
A cluster of bodies around me lay
The whiskey and blood, they run hand in hand
Exhausted by the fuming man-made flames
Our metal beast slain, strewn about the land
God, let the doctors remember our names
There are plenty of reasons to lament
Me and my lady will die where we lay
Good luck to those who survive this event
Tis’ fate hath decided our judgment day
We danced all night, as if danseurs from France
A Tango, a Waltz, a brilliant dance



Letter to a Friend
By Nick Eltis

Within the last few years We’ve grown apart
Our faces have become more like our fathers’
And our minds more like our mentors’
We have moved on
Making new friends to fill in the gaps
That have been left empty by our absences
Losing memories of each other every day
Like lambs to the slaughter
Our innocence has also been carried off
By news broadcasts and x-rated movies
Our knowledge has corrupted us both
Let us sleep again like children
Let our thoughts be pure again like saints
Let our actions again be sincere
For we have lost these virtues over time
These changes are not for the better
They’ve hindered our spirits
From becoming what we were truly meant to be
Caring, loving, honest human beings



The River
By Nick Eltis

My mind is like a river Keep on thinking or I’ll die
Flood the city with racing thoughts
Keep the currents rushing by
Do not dam my precious river
Let my thoughts submerge my brain
Let them trickle down my frontal lobe
And not down my bath tub drain
Let my brainwork form an ocean
So I’ll have a place to swim
I’ll build myself a battleship
And sail the seas within
And if my little river stops
Somewhere inside my head
It will be that day that you can say
The boy is surely dead.



Really Living
By Carol Graf

How about fishing on the banks of the Uncompahgre
releasing your spirit among the Havasupai

yahooing at dawn on the Wapsipinicon
canoeing into the moody woods of the Housatonic

panscoping all the lights around nighttime Lake Pontchartrain
interloping among hang-outs, haunts, and hollows in Piscataquis Parish

harkening to the trains softly clattering through rundown Conshohocken
just marking time amid the sights and smells and sounds of downtown McConnellsburg

invading cluttered bookstalls and lettered halls at Beloit or Fordham
wading into sensuous literary currents at St. Norbert or Putnam

aaahhh .......that would be really living

But how about
catching a ho-hum ride across dead ugly dull stubbly brown flatlands to Marvin, South Dakota

hah hah.......would that be really living

What is it that matters
Which is it that delights

Friends matter

With friends, even a short trip to Marvin is really living
Without friends, even a trip offering new thrills and skills is not



My Wife, My Son, My Family
By James Ingram

The scent of orange fills my nose,
A reminder of my freshly washed hair.
She cuddles up next to my back,
Her arm over me like a comforting blanket.

As I lay there, half asleep,
I can feel her stomach moving.
And it takes me back five years,
Back to when she carried our first son.

She would hold me like this,
The lingering smell of her soap.
Washing over me like a wave of cucumber-melon,
Cocooning me in her cleanliness.

When I would begin to doze,
I would feel our unborn child kicking her.
I could feel his hands and feet thumping,
Ever so lightly into my back.

It felt like the bass from a stereo,
Which rattles your eardrums and shakes your bones.
Only far softer, a gentle reminder of his presence,
Good night kisses for dad, night time beating for mom.

As I snoozed,cushioned in her warmth,
And assaulted by his vigor.
I could gaze out the window,
And watch the soft snow drift down onto the quiet earth.

As they passed before my eyes,
I could see each tiny snowflake.
Dancing like a miniature ballerina,
To the music of my son’s ever increasing tempo.

Then she would roll over to get more comfortable,
And I would follow her, wrapping my body around hers.
The smell of her hair, the scent of strawberries,
Caressing my nostrils with their teasing fragrance.

She would sigh as I enfolded her,
Her body molding to mine like so much putty.
As I closed my eyes and entered the blissful world of sleep,
I could feel him already starting to rat-atat-tat on my hands.<>



Genunie
By Jen Olson

in a city
so large
and full of silence
in a city
so hurt
and full of injured
crying
in a city
so lost
and filled with
empty souls
it is amazing that
people don’t understand
something as simple
as a tear.



Moot Moosings

By Jen Olson

“who do you want to screw,
marilyn manson or rob zombie?”
he says with a psychotic psychologist’s voice.
thechoice is between a greasy eel
and a screaming snail.
and like a calculus problem,
my mind cannot process it.
not a delicious or desirable consideration,
sleeping with either of them.
to cut off an arm or leg,
the question is really this.
the arm, i think,
because i hate heavy objects.
just like i hate heavy subjects.

a collection of moot musings,
these questions of screwing.
we talk about other useless things,
ruling Iceland and becoming syphilis,
choosing celebrity underwear.
like chimps avoiding experiments,
we skirt the truth.
no Navy and lost keys,
no broken engagements or DUIs.
this sugar coated conversation is our raft,
helping us to drift away from solid things.

i wonder if he is serious,
if he could ever really leave this world
to become an astronaut.
or if I would really make a good Buddhist,
silently contemplating without insane emotions
that define my being.
And someday, maybe soon,
the night will not draw to a close
with darkness
signaling the long resisted end to today’s charade.
in a few minutes i will drift back to my dorm room
and he will stroll back to the ship.
but i know this conversation will continue,
at another time, with the same friend, in a different mindset,
even if it involves screwing marilyn manson.



My Future Isn’t Here
By Jen Olson

Whimsically floating,
she glints like a child,
alone in her vision.
“I’m going to New York
to play in traffic.”
A picture of vivaciousness,
stirred with the impulsive.

Grounded in stone and responsibilities.

And like a bird’s flight,
she means now, today.
Face jumping like a bee,
sporadic excitement flowing,
she grabs the lemon raincoat.
“I’m gonna taste a vendor’s hot dog
and look in Madonna’s window.”

I hate hot dogs.

She sings about carriages
and living in the park.
Of disco ball Fridays,
and philosophical book clubs.
“Central Park is the place.
The only place to live.”
And she might be able to do it,
dusting the crowd with dreams.

Silence.

“I need to go.
I am suffocating here.”
She dreams of how her curtains,
her swirly, homemade curtains,
could brush the trees in the park.
And like a cloud,
dust puffs in from the window,
proving her point.

Rain is coming, be practical.

“I must bring the book,”
and in goes Confessions of a Viagra Addict,
her reason for the Calculus grade.
There is always a reason,
she says belligerently.

And I believe it.

Aging underwear tossed in,
surrounded by mismatched earrings.
Her toothbrush forgotten,
shoved under the bed,
comforting an abandoned shoe.
“I need the perfect perfume.”



Desperate for Normalcy.

As the excitement starts to fade,
she drifts away mistily.
Taking the dreams.
The raincoat is folded back,
gingerly placed in a chest.
And when everything is put way,
the magic is gone with the dust.

I can’t go.

“But neither can you stay,”
she says from the back of my mind,
momentarily pacified by oncoming dusk.
As I fight back the excitement,
the crazed impulses,
I know the time is coming.



Endings
By Jen Olson

Trick me, use me, teach me, she screams in my head,
silent except for the grim laugh shining from her eyes.
Excitement courses through my veins,
defining her fear and my direction.
Her naked body glistens with sweat,
a tribute to some god long forgotten
in the journey from that insignificant town
where that sweet-faced boy was found,
hanging from the lone light fixture
in a room desolate and haunted by drooping promises.
Promises that I could stop,
that I would think about something other
than the cheap steel pressed against my throat
as my innocence was ripped away,
just as hers is about to be,
any lingering trace of youth.
Ah, yes it has been a long road to this dingy motel
in a long series of crusty bedspreads and dripping sinks,
of dirty whores and empty sacks, sprinkled with cocaine.
My one remaining textbook, a nod to that small college town,
the town I deserted in blind desperation,
acts as her head rest,
and grainy ropes tie her to tonight’s fate.
And she doesn’t even allow one singular tear to shine for me.
Because we were both dead, long before the light deserted us,
long before the gruesome church bells could save us,
long before this moment of silent comprehension could illuminate the truths of the past.



Simple Silence
By Jen Olson

i watched a solo
brown leaf meander
to the ground
in no hurry
and felt grateful
that something so simple
was the most beautiful thing I had seen
in a long time.



Smiling Alone
By Jen Olson

I saw you
alone in your crimson
colored glory
awake from nostalgias long
left behind in
the rush to
find a new
day a
new life.

I heard you
speak like no
one I had
ever heard
and it occurred
to me
that I understood
your wonder
even if not
your words.



Serenity in Unusual Places
By Jen Olson

Its funny how nothingness
is strangely amusing. As if sitting comatose, perched
lazily on a cushion is sane. Thinking about prancing in
Caribbean waters like a dreary snowplow driver.
As if staring,
with a blank mind and vision,
at the expansive sky is enlightening. The bland expression
and tired mind create a world that is simplistic and conflicting.
Like a wilting flower, drizzled with water,
that floods and dies. A moment of nothing is salvation.
Yet overpowering. I smile
at the Sunday mornings that turn into
afternoons, laying snuggled in fleece and down. Swimming in warmth
and satisfaction. Or
the ten minute flop breaks in between real life spent
face down on a fluffy rug, dreaming
about dreaming. Leaves blowing in the wind.
Laying in the park, watching the dust. A windy twirl with pillow
in the middle of a kitchen. A gift of lightness that is like wings to take my mind away.
Serenity in unusual places.



Pretty Things
By Jen Olson

he crumpled
himself in to the
moist plastic
seat
grasping a
book with
antiqued pages
and a dirt
smothered pink
cover
I
wondered if
he was a
blooming artist
or a collector
of
things to look
old
I wondered
if he
knew about
truth and
beauty or if he
skirted it I
wondered if it was
important
enough
to
wonder.



Never For Feeling
By Jen Olson

If you never touch me again
With pearly white knuckles
Ground soundly and firmly against
A fake brand of designer cream
And if sunlight never softens
Once tan and streaming skin
With clouds forever shining against pavement
And if air forgets
never finds a path of sweet release
To reach my lungs
Then I will stop in this moment
In a haze of chatter
movement color in the background
Sitting in a beige square
Surrounded by ground mahogany and
Paper-cut smiles
Discussing death and the nature of clocks
Buzzing by and ants trouping in the salty
Dirt and I will know
That the small insignificant crystals
Of snow floating by the
Window mean more than this. And yet
Not enough.



More of Nothing
By Jen Olson

i saw a
man
on the train
with deep
eyes
that stared into
mine
without a
smile
or any disconcernable
amount of
emotion
just stared
lost
i looked towards a
more
interesting sight
green with
a
hint of
sunshine and when
i
looked back
he
was gone
and other eyes
were
looking back at
me
and I realized
i
missed
the emptiness
of the
blank communication.



Exhausted Air
By Jen Olson

The chattering hum of the television
drones out my thoughts with the constant chatter
of others living a life.
As if those people know about life.
And the florescent lights glare off my page,
guiding my eyes
to more interesting pictures, showing me
a world that doesn’t include linguistics.

This struggle
parades with zoning eyes
and a sketchy mind.
There is no biology.
Only crazy people searching for something of value.
Homework. Sunshine. Socks.
As if you could really find it.
And what would you do if you did?
Die of boredom. Questing and pretending.
Like a ripping hangover morning,
the night before is doomed to be forgotten.

Homework is listless.
Professors share their life, for what it’s worth.
And I never know what to do with this burden
of expectations.
Precious knowledge. Garbled futures.
Reality is the crusty mac n’ cheese pan,
waiting to be scrubbed.
The mountains of snow blocking escape.
Or the awkward, decaying smell crawls from the vent.
I am alone with myself,
consumed by exhausted air.
And my eyes drift back to the page,
uninviting the cramped typing that thumbs through my brain.
The cheesing grin of a third grader stares back,
demanding empathy and curiosity.
And I begin to read again.



Wasted Foreplay
By Jen Olson

I love it when he calls me beautiful.
As if he loves me and I am the most lovely woman
in the world. As if these moments are real. What a fake.
He sleeps with a fifteen year old. He dreams of money and suits
but wastes life on Morgan and acid. All his dreams are already
dead. Twenty-one years of wasted experiences. There is no love.
And he calls me to know success without
being a part of it. He fears normal. I fear jail.
Our endless banter is wasted foreplay. Like flirting with a plant.
It doesn’t hurt. It surprises me how much it doesn’t hurt.
And when he calls me to tell me about his newest date
with captivity, I snidely make some insipid comment about real life.
When I actually don’t know what that is. As I push away a misty sense of jealousy.
Because he is everything I want to be
when I feel compelled to crash off the road of reality,
slamming my head to Metallica’s “No Remorse.”
I will hand in my homework on time.
He will show up smashed to work on Tuesday.
And I will love it when he calls me beautiful.



Sinking
By Lara Steen

Plummeting, I fall lower and lower.
Nothing seems to matter anymore.
I slowly sink into oblivion.
And time stops.
Trying to look out from the shroud
And discover I can’t see an opening.
I flounder and claw
But to no avail.
Screaming as no sound comes out
I reach out blindly and find you.
Clinging for all I’m worth,
Hoping you will be solace.
For a time everything is better,
But then it continues downhill.
Yet again I am left alone.
Sinking into blackness.
Spiraling
Downward
Fast.



Taste of Steel
By Lara Steen

Nothing feels better
than the quick bite of steel
being drug across delicate white skin
where green veins flow back and forth
with fresh blood ready to be spilled in a long thin line.
It’s like a high
that can’t be replicated.
It’s better than the first time
you took a hit. Better than
the first time you were fucked.
A euphoria
that takes you over and over
every time you taste the blade.
The release comes swift and you
Watch your life trickling down your arm



What Women Want to Hear
By Lara Steen

He said, “You’re beautiful.”
She promptly laughed in his face.

He said, “You smell delicious.”
She glared viciously.

He said, “You makemy day.”
She ignored him entirely.

He said, “You complete me.”
She snorted in disgust.

He said, “My God Woman, What do you want to hear?!”
She rolled her eyes and blew out an enormous sigh.

He said, “I love you.”
She screamed in delight.

Hesaid, “What?”
She jumped into his arms and said –

“Finally, just what I wanted to hear.”

Poetry 2006-2007

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Poetry 2006-2007
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Progress Reset
By Craig Bradney

Moving forward,
Never looking back.
Making strides,
And improving one’s self.

Coming from darkness,
Into the light.
Tearing down those built up walls,
Baring your soul.

Meeting someone,
Caring for them.
Feelings abound,
Love blossoms.

Plans are made,
Dreams are laid down.
Futures planned,
First steps taken.

Information is found out,
Details revealed.
Lies discovered,
Hurt begins.

Reasons sought,
Never any found.
Friends’ support,
Truth undiscovered.

Progress once had,
Return to beginning.
Work lost,
Progress reset.



Dreams of The Day
By Craig Bradney

When the sun rises,
And the day begins.
One’s hope stretches,
Out to embrace the day.

Within the time,
That the day consists of.
One does think,
Of what could have been.

Once that thought,
Embeds itself in your mind.
You begin to dream,
And truly shape what you wish could be.

As the day goes on,
That dream becomes more real.
And the reality of what truly is,
Diverges from the ideal.

As the divergence becomes more great,
Your heart begins to realize that fact.
Your dream fades,
As does the light of day.

When you finally release the tension of the day,
As you prepare to sleep.
You lay your head and pray,
That you will have good dreams.

As you slumber,
You surrender yourself to the full power of your mind.
And with that power,
Come the Terrors of The Night.



Terrors of The Night
By Craig Bradney

Now I lay me down to sleep,
How many times have we heard these words?
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If only those words were true.

When we sleep at night,
We hope to be at peace.
When we close our eyes,
We wish to have sweet dreams.

But for some of us,
This is not to be.
When we close our eyes,
All we dream of is darkness.

We awake in cold sweats,
Barely escaping from an unseen demon.
Not recognizing our surrounding,
With our heart thudding in our chests.

As this happens night after night,
We approach our limit of endurance.
We long for a peaceful rest,
At last to escape the terror of the night.




Candids of a Best Friend
By Emily Drayer

Photos spread over the floor
reenacting the last year--
from weddings to family funerals,
Saturday boredom to a planned weekend away;
the sun faded a majority of those best friend moments.

I pick them up, one by one
remembering why each was taken.
These old candids are all that is left,
of a time when smiles came
as quickly as the tears now form.

You never came back,
like you said you always would.
Moving can be tough--
It’s worse for the one left behind.



Mary had a Little Lamb
By Sierra Eidet

Mary had a little lamb
Its fleece as black as coal
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to follow
Until one day
Mary went to town
To buy herself
An evening gown
The lamb followed
Unaware of his fate
For this would be
His last trip through town
Across the street Mary went
Followed by the lamb
Across the street Mary went
To the butchers is where she’d go
Back at home
She found her dinnerware
And put on her evening gown
Lifting the top
To the oversized platter
She put a piece of meat
Onto her flowered plate
Mary had a little lamb
For dinner



Modern Times
By Kristin Gilbertson

There are
those of us
with the intellegence
and foresight
to see
the world
is unraveling itself
greed
has taken over
and no one cares
anymore
so we
escape
any way we can
tortured
by our thoughts
and fearful
for what
our children
will face
tormented
we move on
discouraged
at the thought
of what's
to come.



Ode to a Donut
By Nicole McDonald

To the donut I did not eat
I would like to say,
I’m sorry.

Your brothers and sisters
did their job well.
The growling beast inside is sated.
Though that does leave
The Issue
of the one, last victim:
you.
What to do, what to do?

I would not eat you just now
for fear of angering the beast within,
so stay in the box,
sit in your box,
and we shall wait for my whim.

The beast will growl again someday
and, little lonely donut,
you’ll br needed.
Your time will come
when your purpose will be fulfilled
and the monster will be greeted.

So, for now
sit and wait
in your box
for your fate.



Age
By Elizabeth Weidenbach

My grandfather’s face is old and wise.
His expression, stern.
Rarely does he smile
Rarely does he laugh.

His face is aged with spots;
Skin, loose and wrinkled.
Stubble grows from his chin and nose
Fine gray hairs can be seen in his ears.

My grandfather’s body is old and strong
His arms still defined.
Never does he rest
Never is he handicapped.

His hearing is helped with plastic;
Eyes, with thick lenses.
Metal hold his knees and
Pills run his heart.

My grandfather is old and wise
He has taught his family many things.
My grandfather is old
But age has hurt him not.



Art Museum
By Elizabeth Weidenback

Life is an art museum
Open nine to five
Oieces put on display
Parts loved more than others
Mona Lisa smiles
And beautiful Starry Nights
For curious eyes to see.

But, underneath the floors
The vaults, the places no one goes
And behind closed doors
And under sheets
Is what the public faces will never know.

And still yet
The open doors will close
Shut tight at five
The publis and private blend.
The life.
The art museum.



Starting Is....
By So-Young Yang

Looks clear without any problems, though
inside, there are storm to roar; it's gathering
all black clouds and then finally get ready to
appear; hotter, windier, cloudier; it will be raining.

Before something start, we all struggle with and
think many times to do the right things and never
disappoint or make mistakes;
however, when we are worried about making mistakes
too much, then, it makes us not even start

Once we get into it, we can do it done well,
although it's a big stone to be lifted up to the sky.
Not just starting, but should keep going until it's done.
That's the reason why people say it is difficult to start

Starting is not easy all the time, but it has the key to open
the door that you can choose for your future.

Poetry 2007-2008

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Poetry 2007-2008
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Cogs of Life
By Nick Blazer

Chronos marches on unnoticed, casting a shadow upon creation.
The wind mourns fiercely; Atropos has severed yet another thread.
The light wanes as a pale crescent ascends into the heavens.
The once radiant inferno, now weakened, retreats into horizon.

Gaia, now bathed in the lunar shadow, withers away,
But even the mighty grip of Thanatos cannot subdue the great Wheel,
For the fiery chariot endlessly will reclaim the skies with brilliance
And in the warmth, Gaia will once again return from peaceful slumber



The Pigs are All Lined Up
By Nick Blazer

There is a pervasive sameness
A dulling in the colors around me
Repetition in a sense of black and white
A collective surrender to the powers that be

The drones, they march onward
Like ants in a line
Seeking nothing, following blindly
A complete lack of motivation and individualism

Every day we organize ourselves more and more
A hive mentality of the highest order



Achromatic
By Lisa Bowman

Yesterday was a great day.
I can’t wait until tomorrow.
But today?
I could do without.

There’s so much that I would take back
And just as much I’d leave behind
But everyday I wish that
There was no such thing as time

The most insured thing in life is change.
That means that nothing stays the same
That means that things will remain
As more things will be gained

If yesterday was black
And tomorrow will be white
Then all it is today is gray
We have nothing certain to say.

Embrace the black
Anticipate the white
Gray will blend
And life will mend.



Endless Time
By Lisa Bowman

Yesterday and today
makes no difference
past, present, future
histories and mysteries
now and then or later
young and old are stories told
by each clock's chime to measure time
that was then, this is now
I know now, but wonder how
what it's about

from night to day
the silenced say
the world's the same
either way
sunset, sunrise
we live, we die
we fail and try
again and again
yet never win

the battle of time cannot be tamed
the measure of life cannot be named
for time is nothing but a game
we cheat, we steal
we hide, reveal
we run but can't escape the deathful state
our wretched fate, the unknown shape
that will erase all time from life
and life of time
for all is just a rhyme
repeating itself line
by line
until the end starts back again
where it began
this endless time



Inspiration
By Lisa Bowman

brushstrokes rushing through my veins
colors swirling in my head
going more insane
from the words that you have said
lightening the pressure
with moments getting bolder
freshening the picture
as images get older
covering the canvas
making points across the page
screaming "I CAN'T STAND THIS"
dredging timing age
studying reflections
silent recognitions
drifting into dreams
writing words to sing
and to be sung
when the right time comes
capturing the moments
the drive inside of me
like
climbing shapeless mountains
jumping off of unmarked cliffs
only to fall
into the fountain
of expression

my motive to live




Faith of the Heart
By Craig Bradney

Long roads,
Stretching out beyond all sight.
Long nights,
Spent cold and alone.

Wishing for more,
To feel completed.
Having to wait,
For time to pass.

Needing the feelings,
To hold on to what is true.
Clinging to what the heart feels,
And believing it every day.

Holding close,
To those feelings.
Dreaming of the day,
When things will be perfect.

Wishing for more,
Knowing it cannot be yet.
Dreaming of the day,
When one dance will cement it all.



The Highway
By Craig Bradney

A lone figure emerges,
Boots awash in dust.
Walking from within the ruins,
Of dreams once coming true.

The lost soul is what he looks for,
A never-ending search has begun.
That fateful journey,
The traveler never dreamt he’d make.

Each and every day,
The lone man walks on.
Never finding rest,
Always on the move.

The one thing he desires to find,
Always seems to elude him.
Sometimes he will catch a glimpse,
And then he finds the image to be nothing but an illusion.

At long last he discovers,
For all the effort has been for naught.
The traveler stops,
For he sees the road has no end.


Sarah Eppen Drumbeats
Drums begin to beat,
sounding the rhythm known
since the beginning of time.
They grow louder until
my bones vibrate
with the rhythm.
I cannot tell if the music
is real or a product of imagination.

I look up towards the sky, and
stars pulsate, changing
colors so rapidly that my
head spins as I watch.
The stars dance to the music,
stopping when it stops.

The drums continue to pound
inside my head – a rhythm
only I can hear after
that last drink.



I turn to you
By Kaylee Johnson

Whenever I need a friend…
I turn to you
and you assure me you are to the end.

Whenever bad things come my way…
I turn to you
and you make my troubles go away.

Whenever I frown…
I turn to you
and you turn the frown upside down.

Whenever I don’t feel right…
I turn to you
and you guide me through the night.

Whenever I feel I can’t go on…
I turn to you
suddenly those feelings are gone.

Whenever i just need to talk…
I turn to you
and you say “come let’s take a walk”

So no matter where life takes me to…
I’ll turn to you
and I know I’ll make it through.

Sheila Loebs Evan James

A new baby's life
Is like the start of a tale,
Whose trials and adventures,
Only time will unveil.

Before you imagine,
What his future will bring,
Stop for a moment,
And consider one thing.

If we are measured,
By the lives we touch,
For one so small,
He has accomplished so much.

He gave a young lady
A new title to flaunt.
She was once just a sister,
But now she's an aunt.

His parents have parents
To give them a hand.
Because of him,
We now call them grand.

Some were grandparents
Long before that date;
The day he was born,
He made them great.

Without even knowing
What he had done,
He made a father
Of another man's son.

He touched one life
More than any other.
He is the miracle
That made her a mother.



Sonnet 25: Autumn’s Fall
By Amanda Newharth

There are splashes of color ev’rywhere:
Beauty and peace surround me on all sides:
It’s so perfect I can’t help but to stare
As an eagle over my head now glides;
My gaze follows him into the sunset.
The soft scent of flowers enters my nose
As the final flowers of spring are met
With a crisp chill as an autumn wind blows.
The hum of insects form a melody
That blends with the twittering of the birds.
I’d float away if my heart would let me.
To do this scene justice there are no words—
The stars begin to twinkle up above
The only thing I’m missing is your love.



Sonnet 4: Childhood
By Amanda Newharth

My entire life I have wished on stars.
Following rainbows to find pots of gold,
Fantasies of travel in those fast cars:
Such silly dreams don’t go far I’ve been told.
As a girl I was allowed to pretend:
Being an animal was just a game.
But now since I have grown such things must end.
Why can’t everything just remain the same?
Mommy’s kisses that had healing powers
Warm cookies that chased away my troubles.
Riding in tractors with daddy for hours,
Turning cartwheels, then off to chase bubbles.
Loving so freely-like everyone should
If only I could have stayed in childhood.