Infamous Woman
By Naomi Heart
The succulent sweet currents of your love
Sweep me away,
Show me
The light
Within your eyes
Within your soul
Within
Me.
- - -
I love her. I really do.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
2/27/11
Look Beautiful
By Steve Baba
She hurriedly
Walked down the
Cracked sidewalk
Applying the last
Bits of lipstick on
Her full lips,
Wispy strands of red
Hair not yet put in
Place, her pleated skirt
Still wrinkled, but when
I saw her as I waited on
The corner she still
Looked beautiful in the
Early morning sunshine.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
By Steve Baba
She hurriedly
Walked down the
Cracked sidewalk
Applying the last
Bits of lipstick on
Her full lips,
Wispy strands of red
Hair not yet put in
Place, her pleated skirt
Still wrinkled, but when
I saw her as I waited on
The corner she still
Looked beautiful in the
Early morning sunshine.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
2/26/11
Passions, Unworried Heart
By Ron Koppelberger
Realms of stray bond, blossoming evanescent,
Animal arrayed by the liking of a remedy in gainful riot,
By passions unworried heart and taboos innermost fire,
Ravishing the awaiting purity of passionate wars and kingdoms of warm rain, the adornments of consolable
Possession and romance at the last
Traces of
Dawn.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
By Ron Koppelberger
Realms of stray bond, blossoming evanescent,
Animal arrayed by the liking of a remedy in gainful riot,
By passions unworried heart and taboos innermost fire,
Ravishing the awaiting purity of passionate wars and kingdoms of warm rain, the adornments of consolable
Possession and romance at the last
Traces of
Dawn.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
Friday, February 25, 2011
2/25/11
Alone With The Sea
By Shane Crabtree
She sat alone; staring out over the sea, the moonlight glinting off the surface put her in mind of an underwater sun instead of her Moon. For some reason this idea disturbed her, ignited a spark of fear. What was it like under the dark, inky surface? How was Atlantis? How do the citizens of the underwater city take to visitors? Kindly, she hoped.
The window was open and every once in a while the shutters would be caught by a faint sea breeze, causing them to creak in the night. The smell of salt and seaweed enveloped her senses. It wrapped her body, comforting her, giving her hope. She could feel the ocean, the wetness, the salty taste. But no…that’s not the sea, it was her tears. She had not noticed them falling.
There was a faint chiming in the background, one, two, three in the morning. How long had it been? How many days had she sat there? How many nights? Days filled with sorrow, nights filled with longing. Is that what love was? What it felt like? How could the fairy tales be wrong? Where was her knight; her Lancelot?
How long had he been gone? A short voyage he had said, no more than a week. It was fishing season after all, and this could be the last of the summer. But the week had fled, the pages falling from the calendar like autumn leaves in a forest of oaks. It was in the fourth week and the optimism was dying, but she could not accept the reality. He would come home. They were simply having better luck at the fishing than they had expected. That was all. God, if it could be true, she thought.
She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the shutter slamming off the side of the house. The wind was starting to pick up, blowing clouds in from out over the Pacific. The clouds were attempting to block out the Moon but She wouldn’t give up, She was lighting the way for him. The faint glow was shining behind the clouds in the manner a lamp does when concealed behind a hand.
Crack! A streak of lightning ripped the night sky, appearing to open a hole into heaven. Can you hear me God? Can you see him? Do you know where he’s at? Thunder and a torrent of rain was His response. The drops were beating on the tin roof with the fervor of a thousand tiny dancers on opening night.
As the clouds drifted and the Moon could once again shine Her light unfiltered, she thought she caught a glimpse of…but how could that be? Had she finally gone mad? But the following jolt of lightning confirmed it. There was her love, standing out in the ocean. No, she corrected herself, not in the ocean, on the ocean. He was smiling. He looked, not quite happy, but definitely content, and he was waving for her to join him.
She was quickly sliding out the window, her toes squelching in the sand as she landed. She used to love that feeling, the warmth seeping between and over her toes, but tonight she cursed the sand and wished for more solid ground so that she may run all the faster. She looked upon her love, surprised to see that he would not meet her halfway, that she must go to him. But that was like him, wasn’t it? Anything to irk her; to keep her waiting.
As she crashed into the waves she was surprised, the water was much colder than she had expected, but it didn’t matter, not now. He was home, he was safe, but something felt wrong. Where was the boat? The crew? And how long had it been since One had walked on water? But her love and excitement would not allow these thoughts to linger; they were gone as soon as they formed. They simply did not matter.
She was now far enough out to swim, but her beloved seemed no closer. Unperturbed she kicked all the harder, paddled all the faster. Fighting the waves that sought to keep her beached, cursing Poseidon with every other breath. The rain was beating down harder than anyone save Noah had ever seen, causing the sea to raise as quickly as her bath would have.
She swam for what seemed like hours. Her shoulders screaming in pain, her eyes bloodshot from the salt. She looked up, searching for her love. He was nowhere to be found. She cursed her luck, cursed the Moon and Her mocking face, but most of all cursed her foolishness. She had seen a shimmer of moonlight on the surface of the ocean and imagined it to be him, and now she would die for it. She had no strength to swim back; she was barely staying afloat as it was, the ocean’s fingers caressing her bottom lip, sometimes growing so bold as to brush her nostrils.
Resigned to her fate, she stopped the struggle and let herself sink into the depths. Water poured down her throat, igniting her lungs, pushing out the last bit of oxygen and replacing it with salty poison. She opened her eyes. At least she would know what was under the sea, could see for herself if Disney’s representation was in any way accurate.
And there he was, glowing, translucent. Smiling and waving as before, but this time not out of reach. They embraced, and now his smile was one of unrivaled happiness. She held her love, fingers running through his hair and his through hers, their tears adding depth to the ocean. Their souls seemed to intertwine, their hearts beating as one; their hearts slowing as one. When her body had had enough, and her lungs collapsed, she was finally happy. Her body fell away, sinking to the depths, but that no longer mattered. He had come back to her.
***
The rain passed on, looking for another lonely soul to entertain. The waves calmed and became a liquid mirror, reflecting the image of the Moon, watching eternally, alone with the sea.
- - -
I'm a 21 year old college student from Abingdon, VA. I currently live in Johnson City, TN and am a senior at East Tennessee State University. My life is reading, writing, listening to music, and running.
By Shane Crabtree
She sat alone; staring out over the sea, the moonlight glinting off the surface put her in mind of an underwater sun instead of her Moon. For some reason this idea disturbed her, ignited a spark of fear. What was it like under the dark, inky surface? How was Atlantis? How do the citizens of the underwater city take to visitors? Kindly, she hoped.
The window was open and every once in a while the shutters would be caught by a faint sea breeze, causing them to creak in the night. The smell of salt and seaweed enveloped her senses. It wrapped her body, comforting her, giving her hope. She could feel the ocean, the wetness, the salty taste. But no…that’s not the sea, it was her tears. She had not noticed them falling.
There was a faint chiming in the background, one, two, three in the morning. How long had it been? How many days had she sat there? How many nights? Days filled with sorrow, nights filled with longing. Is that what love was? What it felt like? How could the fairy tales be wrong? Where was her knight; her Lancelot?
How long had he been gone? A short voyage he had said, no more than a week. It was fishing season after all, and this could be the last of the summer. But the week had fled, the pages falling from the calendar like autumn leaves in a forest of oaks. It was in the fourth week and the optimism was dying, but she could not accept the reality. He would come home. They were simply having better luck at the fishing than they had expected. That was all. God, if it could be true, she thought.
She was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the shutter slamming off the side of the house. The wind was starting to pick up, blowing clouds in from out over the Pacific. The clouds were attempting to block out the Moon but She wouldn’t give up, She was lighting the way for him. The faint glow was shining behind the clouds in the manner a lamp does when concealed behind a hand.
Crack! A streak of lightning ripped the night sky, appearing to open a hole into heaven. Can you hear me God? Can you see him? Do you know where he’s at? Thunder and a torrent of rain was His response. The drops were beating on the tin roof with the fervor of a thousand tiny dancers on opening night.
As the clouds drifted and the Moon could once again shine Her light unfiltered, she thought she caught a glimpse of…but how could that be? Had she finally gone mad? But the following jolt of lightning confirmed it. There was her love, standing out in the ocean. No, she corrected herself, not in the ocean, on the ocean. He was smiling. He looked, not quite happy, but definitely content, and he was waving for her to join him.
She was quickly sliding out the window, her toes squelching in the sand as she landed. She used to love that feeling, the warmth seeping between and over her toes, but tonight she cursed the sand and wished for more solid ground so that she may run all the faster. She looked upon her love, surprised to see that he would not meet her halfway, that she must go to him. But that was like him, wasn’t it? Anything to irk her; to keep her waiting.
As she crashed into the waves she was surprised, the water was much colder than she had expected, but it didn’t matter, not now. He was home, he was safe, but something felt wrong. Where was the boat? The crew? And how long had it been since One had walked on water? But her love and excitement would not allow these thoughts to linger; they were gone as soon as they formed. They simply did not matter.
She was now far enough out to swim, but her beloved seemed no closer. Unperturbed she kicked all the harder, paddled all the faster. Fighting the waves that sought to keep her beached, cursing Poseidon with every other breath. The rain was beating down harder than anyone save Noah had ever seen, causing the sea to raise as quickly as her bath would have.
She swam for what seemed like hours. Her shoulders screaming in pain, her eyes bloodshot from the salt. She looked up, searching for her love. He was nowhere to be found. She cursed her luck, cursed the Moon and Her mocking face, but most of all cursed her foolishness. She had seen a shimmer of moonlight on the surface of the ocean and imagined it to be him, and now she would die for it. She had no strength to swim back; she was barely staying afloat as it was, the ocean’s fingers caressing her bottom lip, sometimes growing so bold as to brush her nostrils.
Resigned to her fate, she stopped the struggle and let herself sink into the depths. Water poured down her throat, igniting her lungs, pushing out the last bit of oxygen and replacing it with salty poison. She opened her eyes. At least she would know what was under the sea, could see for herself if Disney’s representation was in any way accurate.
And there he was, glowing, translucent. Smiling and waving as before, but this time not out of reach. They embraced, and now his smile was one of unrivaled happiness. She held her love, fingers running through his hair and his through hers, their tears adding depth to the ocean. Their souls seemed to intertwine, their hearts beating as one; their hearts slowing as one. When her body had had enough, and her lungs collapsed, she was finally happy. Her body fell away, sinking to the depths, but that no longer mattered. He had come back to her.
***
The rain passed on, looking for another lonely soul to entertain. The waves calmed and became a liquid mirror, reflecting the image of the Moon, watching eternally, alone with the sea.
- - -
I'm a 21 year old college student from Abingdon, VA. I currently live in Johnson City, TN and am a senior at East Tennessee State University. My life is reading, writing, listening to music, and running.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
2/24/11
Je Vous Veux
By Steve Baba
She drank red,
The exhaled smoke swirled
In her glass
The gentle mist
Glanced at her and
Whispered
He thinks you are beautiful too
And it touched her naked
Freckled shoulders,
She lightly shuddered
And ran her fingers across
Her soft lips and placed them
On mine
Je vous veux, Je vous veux
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
By Steve Baba
She drank red,
The exhaled smoke swirled
In her glass
The gentle mist
Glanced at her and
Whispered
He thinks you are beautiful too
And it touched her naked
Freckled shoulders,
She lightly shuddered
And ran her fingers across
Her soft lips and placed them
On mine
Je vous veux, Je vous veux
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
2/23/11
Agape
By Alexis Del Rosario
If you're longing for something,
I want to be there to fill you again.
When you're sad,
I want to dry your every tear
And make it so you'll
Never cry in anguish or pain again.
Every time you leave
You are my first and last thought
And like the sun and the moon
I'll follow and admire you
Until the end of time
Even if you'll never come to be mine.
If I can't be there
It feels like you're always here with me
Or I wish it were true.
When you gaze at me
I hate myself
For being imperfect
Because you deserve so much better
And how do you love perfection
When you can't give it?
But all I have to give.
You can have.
Quietly and alone,
I am yours.
- - -
Though I was born in Spokane, Washington, I traveled around the country for 10 years as an Air Force brat, never settling in more than one place for 2 years, before finally returning home to Spokane for good. Currently I am a freshman at Lewis and Clark high school and am enrolled in a creative writing class typically offered to upperclassmen. I love to write anything from short stories to fiction to songs with my band and I am greatly influenced by world events and writers such as Andrea Gibson and Levi the Poet.
By Alexis Del Rosario
If you're longing for something,
I want to be there to fill you again.
When you're sad,
I want to dry your every tear
And make it so you'll
Never cry in anguish or pain again.
Every time you leave
You are my first and last thought
And like the sun and the moon
I'll follow and admire you
Until the end of time
Even if you'll never come to be mine.
If I can't be there
It feels like you're always here with me
Or I wish it were true.
When you gaze at me
I hate myself
For being imperfect
Because you deserve so much better
And how do you love perfection
When you can't give it?
But all I have to give.
You can have.
Quietly and alone,
I am yours.
- - -
Though I was born in Spokane, Washington, I traveled around the country for 10 years as an Air Force brat, never settling in more than one place for 2 years, before finally returning home to Spokane for good. Currently I am a freshman at Lewis and Clark high school and am enrolled in a creative writing class typically offered to upperclassmen. I love to write anything from short stories to fiction to songs with my band and I am greatly influenced by world events and writers such as Andrea Gibson and Levi the Poet.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
2/22/11
Artichokie
By Mandi M. Lynch
“I went to the market today.”
“Did you get everything?
“I forgot the artichokes.”
“You always forget the artichokes. I would think after so long you’d remember the artichokes.”
“Why can’t you just buy a jar of the hearts somewhere?”
“You can’t just buy a heart.”
“No shit.”
“Now isn’t the time to be cynical.”
“So what is it the time for?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Give me a reason not to!”
“Don’t be a jackass!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me!”
“It’s better than raising my hand to you, isn’t it?”
“Don’t start on being an ass this early in the evening.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Why? Do you think you’re the morality police now or something?”
“Must you be like this? No artichokes and now this.”
“Like this? How else should I be?” Somebody would like me like this. But not you.”
“No. I’m not somebody. I’m me. And I don’t have an artichoke. What am I supposed to do without an artichoke?”
“Here’s a thought. Take your own sorry ass to the store for once instead of sending me.”
“Don’t…”
“Oh, get over yourself. You’re supposed to be a lawyer. Then you think you should be a chef when you come home and I should be your gopher.”
“This again?”
“We haven’t resolved it from the first time.”
“And we’re not going to resolve it this time, either.”
“Do you somehow resent me? This life style? Something I’ve done or said?”
“What’s there to resent?”
“The Freedom. The lack of responsibility.”
“You really don’t think that your lack of focus is something to be proud of, do you?”
“I’m focused.”
“Oh what?”
“You can’t just buy the hearts, you know.”
“I guess this isn’t just about vegetables, is it?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I owe you an apology. I do love you, you know.”
“I wish you’d show it sometimes.”
“Fuck You.”
“You’re on.”
- - -
Mandi M. Lynch wrote her first story at the tender age of six, pecking out the words with one finger on her mother's manual typewriter. Since then, the writing has improved at a much more rapid pace than the spelling. She lives in Nashville, TN, with three cats, none of which write due to lack of thumbs.
By Mandi M. Lynch
“I went to the market today.”
“Did you get everything?
“I forgot the artichokes.”
“You always forget the artichokes. I would think after so long you’d remember the artichokes.”
“Why can’t you just buy a jar of the hearts somewhere?”
“You can’t just buy a heart.”
“No shit.”
“Now isn’t the time to be cynical.”
“So what is it the time for?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Give me a reason not to!”
“Don’t be a jackass!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me!”
“It’s better than raising my hand to you, isn’t it?”
“Don’t start on being an ass this early in the evening.”
“Don’t swear.”
“Why? Do you think you’re the morality police now or something?”
“Must you be like this? No artichokes and now this.”
“Like this? How else should I be?” Somebody would like me like this. But not you.”
“No. I’m not somebody. I’m me. And I don’t have an artichoke. What am I supposed to do without an artichoke?”
“Here’s a thought. Take your own sorry ass to the store for once instead of sending me.”
“Don’t…”
“Oh, get over yourself. You’re supposed to be a lawyer. Then you think you should be a chef when you come home and I should be your gopher.”
“This again?”
“We haven’t resolved it from the first time.”
“And we’re not going to resolve it this time, either.”
“Do you somehow resent me? This life style? Something I’ve done or said?”
“What’s there to resent?”
“The Freedom. The lack of responsibility.”
“You really don’t think that your lack of focus is something to be proud of, do you?”
“I’m focused.”
“Oh what?”
“You can’t just buy the hearts, you know.”
“I guess this isn’t just about vegetables, is it?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I owe you an apology. I do love you, you know.”
“I wish you’d show it sometimes.”
“Fuck You.”
“You’re on.”
- - -
Mandi M. Lynch wrote her first story at the tender age of six, pecking out the words with one finger on her mother's manual typewriter. Since then, the writing has improved at a much more rapid pace than the spelling. She lives in Nashville, TN, with three cats, none of which write due to lack of thumbs.
Monday, February 21, 2011
2/21/11
Seductions Freedom
By Ron Koppelberger
Wanting the fame of a conscious consummation
And a beloved pause, in reserved rendezvous, eager
To fulfill the surrender of extravagant seas
In wishing pleasures of availing calm, the exotic allure
Of what’s gone to the utterance of oaths
Restrained, of worship in dreams of betrothal unto the
Dominion of yearning seductions freedom.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
By Ron Koppelberger
Wanting the fame of a conscious consummation
And a beloved pause, in reserved rendezvous, eager
To fulfill the surrender of extravagant seas
In wishing pleasures of availing calm, the exotic allure
Of what’s gone to the utterance of oaths
Restrained, of worship in dreams of betrothal unto the
Dominion of yearning seductions freedom.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
Sunday, February 20, 2011
2/20/11
Call
By Steve Baba
Call.
And what do I say to her? I miss you? I love you? I want you to be right here with me in my arms? No, of course not. I will say, ‘Happy Birthday’, and make small talk and have a meaningless conversation that will always end up as, ‘Call you soon. Take care.’ And then I will hang up the phone and feel that deep twisting ache in my chest. My eyes will water and warm my pale cheeks. And then I will not call her again.
The first time I smelled her was on that Tuesday afternoon in July. The window was open, the sun shining in. It was a rare nice day. The light frothy breeze drifted into the room, and it tangled into her auburn hair. It teased and tickled, and finally when it passed it danced to me, and her scent absorbed into my face. It was a sweet, flowery smell, a smell that I most often sniff when I walk by a red rose bush. I closed my eyes and I thought of nothing else but to be there, with her.
There was the time when I was with her, and she was reading a book. She was so entranced by the book that her brown eyes sparkled with interest and passion. I couldn’t take my own eyes off her. She suddenly glanced up, and caught me staring. But instead of looking down in shame or shyness, I kept my gaze. I couldn’t do anything else. I felt paralyzed. And then I realized that I loved her.
It has been too long a time since I have seen her, and it makes me very sad to know that I am almost to the point where I forget what she looks like. But the feelings are still the same. My heart leaps when I hear her soft words on the telephone. I can feel her pillowy lips on mine when I think of those nights when we kissed under the London moonlight. And her warm hand in mine, so tightly and securely as we would walk through the streets, not seeing anyone else, not hearing anything else, only seeing and hearing each other. I smile when I remember, but my heart cries.
The dial tone ticks away in its methodical sequence. Three times and the line goes quiet. ‘Hello?’ I say.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
By Steve Baba
Call.
And what do I say to her? I miss you? I love you? I want you to be right here with me in my arms? No, of course not. I will say, ‘Happy Birthday’, and make small talk and have a meaningless conversation that will always end up as, ‘Call you soon. Take care.’ And then I will hang up the phone and feel that deep twisting ache in my chest. My eyes will water and warm my pale cheeks. And then I will not call her again.
The first time I smelled her was on that Tuesday afternoon in July. The window was open, the sun shining in. It was a rare nice day. The light frothy breeze drifted into the room, and it tangled into her auburn hair. It teased and tickled, and finally when it passed it danced to me, and her scent absorbed into my face. It was a sweet, flowery smell, a smell that I most often sniff when I walk by a red rose bush. I closed my eyes and I thought of nothing else but to be there, with her.
There was the time when I was with her, and she was reading a book. She was so entranced by the book that her brown eyes sparkled with interest and passion. I couldn’t take my own eyes off her. She suddenly glanced up, and caught me staring. But instead of looking down in shame or shyness, I kept my gaze. I couldn’t do anything else. I felt paralyzed. And then I realized that I loved her.
It has been too long a time since I have seen her, and it makes me very sad to know that I am almost to the point where I forget what she looks like. But the feelings are still the same. My heart leaps when I hear her soft words on the telephone. I can feel her pillowy lips on mine when I think of those nights when we kissed under the London moonlight. And her warm hand in mine, so tightly and securely as we would walk through the streets, not seeing anyone else, not hearing anything else, only seeing and hearing each other. I smile when I remember, but my heart cries.
The dial tone ticks away in its methodical sequence. Three times and the line goes quiet. ‘Hello?’ I say.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
2/19/11
I COULD SEE US
By Larry Blazek
Talking the night away
Waking up naked among the manuscripts
Of the poetry we had written
Realizing we forgot to make love
Realizing that we did
- - -
I was born in Northern Indiana,but I moved to the southern part because the climate is more suited to cycling and the land is cheap.I have been publishing the magazine-format collage "OPOSSUM HOLLER TAROT" since 1983. I could use some submissions.I have been published in the "THE BAT SHAT","VOX POETICA","LEVELER POETRY","FIVE FISHES" ,"FRONT" , and "MOUNTAIN FOCUS ART" among many others.
By Larry Blazek
Talking the night away
Waking up naked among the manuscripts
Of the poetry we had written
Realizing we forgot to make love
Realizing that we did
- - -
I was born in Northern Indiana,but I moved to the southern part because the climate is more suited to cycling and the land is cheap.I have been publishing the magazine-format collage "OPOSSUM HOLLER TAROT" since 1983. I could use some submissions.I have been published in the "THE BAT SHAT","VOX POETICA","LEVELER POETRY","FIVE FISHES" ,"FRONT" , and "MOUNTAIN FOCUS ART" among many others.
Friday, February 18, 2011
2/18/11
Interstellar Love
By Michael Mulcahy
there is no trouble here
this crashing of atoms is to romance
sensational, as I was once insatiable
for this earth was boring and I felt alone
but now I am only not content with time
because all the years this Earth shall give
it will never be enough
to share with my shooting star
alas, we shall shine, and brightly so
perhaps she is a phoenix
as she sets my night on fire
the stars vanish behind the glow
outshone by this swirling nebula
it's uncontrollable now
engulfed by this force, larger than life
more power than all those before it
but I dare not shield my eyes
if her beauty be my downfall, make it so
if this brightness blinds, then shall it blind me
at least she'll be the last thing I see
a wave of passion washes over me
she gives me a half smile, a curled bottom lip
her eyes glisten for me, for my love
no longer is there a thorn in my side
nor in my sweetest rose
we are invincible
as no one stops a ferocious tidal wave
no one shall stop us and what is to come
"devour me"
the thought races through my head
"take all of me and I shall do the same for you
then it shall be us, and how we'll thrive
how no one will comprehend our joy
we shall leave them to their cold, dark world
and start anew, inside love's protection"
I am alive!
no greater feeling, or happier day
then a day souls choose one another
they mesh into one
how beautiful, this day
so let's be our own inferno, darling
let's shatter their beliefs
we'll stand the test of time
and we'll surpass life's transgressions
the strongest component is us
the greatest weapon our bond
no one's seen anything quite like it
this interstellar love
- - -
Michael Mulcahy is a 21-year old aspiring writer who currently resides in Landisville, PA. He has recently finished his first full-length and novel and is looking at possibilities of publication.
By Michael Mulcahy
there is no trouble here
this crashing of atoms is to romance
sensational, as I was once insatiable
for this earth was boring and I felt alone
but now I am only not content with time
because all the years this Earth shall give
it will never be enough
to share with my shooting star
alas, we shall shine, and brightly so
perhaps she is a phoenix
as she sets my night on fire
the stars vanish behind the glow
outshone by this swirling nebula
it's uncontrollable now
engulfed by this force, larger than life
more power than all those before it
but I dare not shield my eyes
if her beauty be my downfall, make it so
if this brightness blinds, then shall it blind me
at least she'll be the last thing I see
a wave of passion washes over me
she gives me a half smile, a curled bottom lip
her eyes glisten for me, for my love
no longer is there a thorn in my side
nor in my sweetest rose
we are invincible
as no one stops a ferocious tidal wave
no one shall stop us and what is to come
"devour me"
the thought races through my head
"take all of me and I shall do the same for you
then it shall be us, and how we'll thrive
how no one will comprehend our joy
we shall leave them to their cold, dark world
and start anew, inside love's protection"
I am alive!
no greater feeling, or happier day
then a day souls choose one another
they mesh into one
how beautiful, this day
so let's be our own inferno, darling
let's shatter their beliefs
we'll stand the test of time
and we'll surpass life's transgressions
the strongest component is us
the greatest weapon our bond
no one's seen anything quite like it
this interstellar love
- - -
Michael Mulcahy is a 21-year old aspiring writer who currently resides in Landisville, PA. He has recently finished his first full-length and novel and is looking at possibilities of publication.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
2/17/11
Throb
By Sara Grayum
My doctors running tests to make sure I’m not hollow.
I told him how you’d make this chest throb
Like a bruise given to me in third grade. How
Our sweat made us glisten in the morning
Sun, like stars forgotten. But that heart,
like a porcelain lamp has since been cracked,
gathering dust and awaiting glue.
He says I sure could benefit from you.
The sound I make as the stethoscope hits my bare
Skin, is as empty as a bottle of whiskey at 5 A.M.
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
By Sara Grayum
My doctors running tests to make sure I’m not hollow.
I told him how you’d make this chest throb
Like a bruise given to me in third grade. How
Our sweat made us glisten in the morning
Sun, like stars forgotten. But that heart,
like a porcelain lamp has since been cracked,
gathering dust and awaiting glue.
He says I sure could benefit from you.
The sound I make as the stethoscope hits my bare
Skin, is as empty as a bottle of whiskey at 5 A.M.
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
2/16/11
Summer of 1993
By Steve Baba
How did we ever love each other?
You always said I read too much,
I always got angry when you talked
To other boys,
We could never let down our guard,
But on that rainy day, it was a Tuesday,
You lay your head on my lap
And I stroked your silky chestnut hair,
The ticking of the rain was the
Only sound I could hear,
Oh did I want to kiss your delectable lips,
I knew I never wanted to go back into
The past ever again, I knew that
This was the happiest time of my life,
You knew how I felt, you didn’t have
To ask, you saw it in my eyes,
You touched my arm with a feathery hand,
And I could feel your love that
I had wanted so badly.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
By Steve Baba
How did we ever love each other?
You always said I read too much,
I always got angry when you talked
To other boys,
We could never let down our guard,
But on that rainy day, it was a Tuesday,
You lay your head on my lap
And I stroked your silky chestnut hair,
The ticking of the rain was the
Only sound I could hear,
Oh did I want to kiss your delectable lips,
I knew I never wanted to go back into
The past ever again, I knew that
This was the happiest time of my life,
You knew how I felt, you didn’t have
To ask, you saw it in my eyes,
You touched my arm with a feathery hand,
And I could feel your love that
I had wanted so badly.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
2/15/11
The Parts Don't Equal the Whole (In the End)
By Adelaide Thorne
I love how juvenile you can be. How you pretend to pick your nose and try to make me pick it. I love when you nom on my finger because I was shushing you and you remark how my learning curve is zero. I love when you tell me I smell of autumn; it is my favorite month. I love how you pretend to cut my hair and how excited you were when I decided to actually let you do it. I love your gruff five o’clock shadow. I love your hair. I love how you wish you could control it but just let it do what it wants. I love when you pull it back with a headband. I love that you cut each fingernail as it needs cutting rather than doing them all at once. (It makes more sense your way.) I love the notes you write on your hands and how large they are. I love when you sew. I love how in your element you are. I love the way your tongue sticks out when you’re really concentrating. I love that you sew without pants on and I love even more that you feel comfortable enough doing it around me. I love your mind and the deep thoughts it contains. I love when you tell me that something I did made your day or just made you happy because I love to make you happy. I love your tickleishness and I love tickling you. I love your creativity and need to always create. I love the beautiful things you make. I love that you spend hours watching commercials. I love your high blood pressure and how it enables me to feel your heart beat; to know you’re alive. I love your purse and your confidence in wearing it. I love how you care about your friends so much. I love your laugh and how easy it can come. I love how easy it is to be around you, how you accept me for all my little quirks. I love when you get excited about anything. I love the way your eyes light up when this happens. I love when you retell stories to me, especially when you display your thoughts as they happened rather than just what occurred. I love when you enact events that are yet to happen but you hope do. I love your uncertainty about everything. I love the way you refuse to readily believe but continue to question everything. I love when you cry and I love knowing all I want is to comfort you and take away your pain. I love how painfully beautiful you are. I love you. (But you don't love me.)
- - -
To fall in love is the only thing I wish. Everything else will fall into place.
By Adelaide Thorne
I love how juvenile you can be. How you pretend to pick your nose and try to make me pick it. I love when you nom on my finger because I was shushing you and you remark how my learning curve is zero. I love when you tell me I smell of autumn; it is my favorite month. I love how you pretend to cut my hair and how excited you were when I decided to actually let you do it. I love your gruff five o’clock shadow. I love your hair. I love how you wish you could control it but just let it do what it wants. I love when you pull it back with a headband. I love that you cut each fingernail as it needs cutting rather than doing them all at once. (It makes more sense your way.) I love the notes you write on your hands and how large they are. I love when you sew. I love how in your element you are. I love the way your tongue sticks out when you’re really concentrating. I love that you sew without pants on and I love even more that you feel comfortable enough doing it around me. I love your mind and the deep thoughts it contains. I love when you tell me that something I did made your day or just made you happy because I love to make you happy. I love your tickleishness and I love tickling you. I love your creativity and need to always create. I love the beautiful things you make. I love that you spend hours watching commercials. I love your high blood pressure and how it enables me to feel your heart beat; to know you’re alive. I love your purse and your confidence in wearing it. I love how you care about your friends so much. I love your laugh and how easy it can come. I love how easy it is to be around you, how you accept me for all my little quirks. I love when you get excited about anything. I love the way your eyes light up when this happens. I love when you retell stories to me, especially when you display your thoughts as they happened rather than just what occurred. I love when you enact events that are yet to happen but you hope do. I love your uncertainty about everything. I love the way you refuse to readily believe but continue to question everything. I love when you cry and I love knowing all I want is to comfort you and take away your pain. I love how painfully beautiful you are. I love you. (But you don't love me.)
- - -
To fall in love is the only thing I wish. Everything else will fall into place.
Monday, February 14, 2011
2/14/11
Wounded
By Megan Kelley
I’ve been shot
with an arrow.
the razor sharp
edges of the steel,
the serrated edges
on the head, tear
my flesh, fiber by fiber.
I can feel this arrow moving
deeper into my torso.
perhaps it is endangering my life,
but I can’t feel any pain,
as long as the arrow is moving forward.
the edges of this arrow
are so fine, and so sharp,
that my flesh gladly parts
under their pressure.
I make no effort to stop the arrow
as it moves,
naturally,
forward.
I glance down at the long silver
bloodstained arrow
protruding from my side.
a seed is planted in my mind
that perhaps losing so much blood
is unhealthy.
the entry wound is small,
just as wide as the arrow head,
but blood pours from the tiny orifice;
my very soul comes out
among the blood.
I get it in my mind
that I should remove this arrow,
for the sake of my life.
experimentally,
I grasp the arrow shaft,
slippery with crimson.
at the moment I give a small tug,
white hot pain shoots through my side,
up my nerves at lightning speed,
up to my brain where the pain
explodes, expands.
every fold and wrinkle of my brain
is flattened out from the blast force
of this black panic,
this white-hot pain.
involuntarily,
out of pure instinct,
I’ve let go of the arrow shaft.
my heart is beating at a wild gallop
and my breath escapes my lungs
in ragged, erratic gasps.
what was that?
my thoughts travel back down
my burnt-out nerves, back
to the site of the intrusion.
for the first time,
I feel that there are two points
backwards,
balancing out the razor sharp
forward point.
the backwards points
weren’t so carefully crafted.
they are dull and gritty,
irritating, searing against anything
they encounter.
although the pain has ended
for a bit,
I still sense the presence of the two
backward points.
just as my blood had started to clot
around the arrow,
I pulled on it, and now
post-pain I’m bleeding freely.
alarm begins as a tiny echo
in the back corner of my frazzled brain.
I won’t stop bleeding.
how will I get this arrow out?
how will I survive?
backwards is not an option.
my brain rejects the very thought
of enduring such searing pain.
and forwards?
is this arrow really going to encounter
a vital organ?
or will it pass through mere tissue,
cartilage and muscle,
inessential?
I have no way of knowing.
two options lay in front of my eyes:
endure the pain
or take my chances.
neither choice is comfortable,
neither choice is safe.
either choice puts my heart and soul
in danger.
but what arrow is this?
why have I been shot?
I attempt to wrangle my thoughts
into coherent bunches,
and recall what sick,
vile, sadistic creature
impaled me with this silver arrow,
now shining with crimson.
nothing comes to me.
I must act soon, either
push it forward or yank it
backwards.
balancing between my choices is robbing me
of my time alive.
as yet more blood pours
out of my side,
my brain grows hazy
with foreign emotions,
of jubilance at choice, and freedom,
and hope.
as I gasp the stale air,
not enough to keep me conscious,
I remember the marksman
to whom I was victim,
the marksman who is watching me now,
and smiling.
Cupid.
- - -
I am a high schooler that is trying to figure out love and the future. I think I love someone, but most everyone says... teenagers can't fall in love. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed my poem!
By Megan Kelley
I’ve been shot
with an arrow.
the razor sharp
edges of the steel,
the serrated edges
on the head, tear
my flesh, fiber by fiber.
I can feel this arrow moving
deeper into my torso.
perhaps it is endangering my life,
but I can’t feel any pain,
as long as the arrow is moving forward.
the edges of this arrow
are so fine, and so sharp,
that my flesh gladly parts
under their pressure.
I make no effort to stop the arrow
as it moves,
naturally,
forward.
I glance down at the long silver
bloodstained arrow
protruding from my side.
a seed is planted in my mind
that perhaps losing so much blood
is unhealthy.
the entry wound is small,
just as wide as the arrow head,
but blood pours from the tiny orifice;
my very soul comes out
among the blood.
I get it in my mind
that I should remove this arrow,
for the sake of my life.
experimentally,
I grasp the arrow shaft,
slippery with crimson.
at the moment I give a small tug,
white hot pain shoots through my side,
up my nerves at lightning speed,
up to my brain where the pain
explodes, expands.
every fold and wrinkle of my brain
is flattened out from the blast force
of this black panic,
this white-hot pain.
involuntarily,
out of pure instinct,
I’ve let go of the arrow shaft.
my heart is beating at a wild gallop
and my breath escapes my lungs
in ragged, erratic gasps.
what was that?
my thoughts travel back down
my burnt-out nerves, back
to the site of the intrusion.
for the first time,
I feel that there are two points
backwards,
balancing out the razor sharp
forward point.
the backwards points
weren’t so carefully crafted.
they are dull and gritty,
irritating, searing against anything
they encounter.
although the pain has ended
for a bit,
I still sense the presence of the two
backward points.
just as my blood had started to clot
around the arrow,
I pulled on it, and now
post-pain I’m bleeding freely.
alarm begins as a tiny echo
in the back corner of my frazzled brain.
I won’t stop bleeding.
how will I get this arrow out?
how will I survive?
backwards is not an option.
my brain rejects the very thought
of enduring such searing pain.
and forwards?
is this arrow really going to encounter
a vital organ?
or will it pass through mere tissue,
cartilage and muscle,
inessential?
I have no way of knowing.
two options lay in front of my eyes:
endure the pain
or take my chances.
neither choice is comfortable,
neither choice is safe.
either choice puts my heart and soul
in danger.
but what arrow is this?
why have I been shot?
I attempt to wrangle my thoughts
into coherent bunches,
and recall what sick,
vile, sadistic creature
impaled me with this silver arrow,
now shining with crimson.
nothing comes to me.
I must act soon, either
push it forward or yank it
backwards.
balancing between my choices is robbing me
of my time alive.
as yet more blood pours
out of my side,
my brain grows hazy
with foreign emotions,
of jubilance at choice, and freedom,
and hope.
as I gasp the stale air,
not enough to keep me conscious,
I remember the marksman
to whom I was victim,
the marksman who is watching me now,
and smiling.
Cupid.
- - -
I am a high schooler that is trying to figure out love and the future. I think I love someone, but most everyone says... teenagers can't fall in love. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed my poem!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
2/13/11
Disappointment
By Sara Grayum
You are the dab of butter melting
in my morning grits. The incessant flicker
from the candles glowing in my room.
You’re in that glass, the golden dancer
of bubbles tingling my nose and mouth.
As I approach that stop sign,
you’ll be that blinding bus,
at each street corner,
stealing my time even years after graduation.
Remembering as I do, you.
The highlighter that lit up my life.
So bold, and so brilliant.
Forget the other paragraphs,
yours were the only words that mattered.
It wasn’t until early on a Tuesday
the daily shift to morning from night.
Allowing a bright sun to greet us
as the moon planned its escape.
There you were, a stranger in my bed
Like a yolk surprise, cracked before my eyes,
I finally saw your true colors
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
By Sara Grayum
You are the dab of butter melting
in my morning grits. The incessant flicker
from the candles glowing in my room.
You’re in that glass, the golden dancer
of bubbles tingling my nose and mouth.
As I approach that stop sign,
you’ll be that blinding bus,
at each street corner,
stealing my time even years after graduation.
Remembering as I do, you.
The highlighter that lit up my life.
So bold, and so brilliant.
Forget the other paragraphs,
yours were the only words that mattered.
It wasn’t until early on a Tuesday
the daily shift to morning from night.
Allowing a bright sun to greet us
as the moon planned its escape.
There you were, a stranger in my bed
Like a yolk surprise, cracked before my eyes,
I finally saw your true colors
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
2/12/11
Love, Stripped Softly
By Desiree Oborn
Love,
stripped softly
of its familiar green in restless flame,
remains still,
stubborn and true,
as winter trees know their worth
in the waiting holds of their arms,
promises of new glories,
and brighter eyes.
- - -
Desiree Oborn writes poetry in California.
By Desiree Oborn
Love,
stripped softly
of its familiar green in restless flame,
remains still,
stubborn and true,
as winter trees know their worth
in the waiting holds of their arms,
promises of new glories,
and brighter eyes.
- - -
Desiree Oborn writes poetry in California.
Friday, February 11, 2011
2/11/11
Echo In Velvet
By Ron Koppelberger
Chasms of breechable exhalation, by the breath of sweetened
Desires in nearness and yesterdays accord,
A day done by seconds, one by one unto the time
Of blissful confederate embrace and a vision of the future
In care, exposed by the boundaries
Of an echo
In velvet.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
By Ron Koppelberger
Chasms of breechable exhalation, by the breath of sweetened
Desires in nearness and yesterdays accord,
A day done by seconds, one by one unto the time
Of blissful confederate embrace and a vision of the future
In care, exposed by the boundaries
Of an echo
In velvet.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
Thursday, February 10, 2011
2/10/11
We Were So Young
By Steve Baba
We were so young then,
Troubles were a million miles away,
You were as fresh as an
Apricot scented wind on a warm
Summer day, I tasted your
Sweet kisses as the stars
Smiled above us,
I had never known what it
Was to be truly free
Until your love unlocked my heart,
Flying through the fascia skies
In my dreams, you were
Right next to me keeping me company,
It was the first time I ever cried
Tears of joy instead of sorrow,
Thank you so much for sharing
Your life with me for one brief moment.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
By Steve Baba
We were so young then,
Troubles were a million miles away,
You were as fresh as an
Apricot scented wind on a warm
Summer day, I tasted your
Sweet kisses as the stars
Smiled above us,
I had never known what it
Was to be truly free
Until your love unlocked my heart,
Flying through the fascia skies
In my dreams, you were
Right next to me keeping me company,
It was the first time I ever cried
Tears of joy instead of sorrow,
Thank you so much for sharing
Your life with me for one brief moment.
- - -
Steve Baba is poet/writer working on his BA in Creative Writing. Steve lives in California.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
2/9/11
Little Flickers
By Sara Grayum
Kara was twenty. She peered out over the rickety metal door enclosing a go-cart track as the wafting smell of chilidogs hit her nose. To her right were Luke and her big sister Jessica, each hand wrapped around the other, blending into one. To her left was an older gentleman with a four-toothed grin and a root-beer belly.
Once Luke and Jessica placed themselves in their bumper cars, Kara noticed the old man drifted off into what appeared to be an alcohol induced nap. To re-assure herself of this she slipped out the matches that were peaking above his breast pocket, never once breaking the old mans slumber. Once convinced of his inebriation, Kara began to peer over the rail, catching a glimpse of where the extra gas canisters were kept. Quietly, Kara grasped the red handle, taking a canister for herself.
Turning the canister upside down, Kara could feel the cold gas fall over her, giving her goose bumps as it covered every inch of her body. She laughed, as she sparked the match, watching as Jessica and Luke swooshed past her on the track, while she engulfed.
Goosebumps soon were replaced with the kind of enveloping warmth that only a shot of makers mark could create. Fires of this kind don’t burn for long, Kara heard the onlookers say, “I give her five minutes,” but she lasted all day. Oh, how Kara adored a low expectation. She loved nothing more, than when you finally exceed…. And their jaws are on the floor.
People huddled around her but not one hand was extended. Except for a few, who retrieved marshmallows, and scoured them in it. She was contagious, and it had felt nice to know. If Kara couldn’t be beautiful, at least she could illuminate them with her glow. She heard some question “How, why, or when?”
“I became a human torch, burning in the breeze,” she said. “And for once in my life, I feel free.”
“What?” the crowd jumped back. They’d never seen fire talk, especially words like that.
The sun settled behind clouds as Kara stood engulfed, admiring her golden hue. And as the fluorescent street lamps came on, she resembled a star. Her whole being sparkled.
“What… what are you doing, Kara?” Jessica exclaimed. “If you were seriously that cold I’m sure Luke would have given you his jacket! Wouldn’t you, Luke?” She persisted.
“Uh. Er… yeah, I guess… if you gave it back,” was Luke’s earnest response.
Kara made an attempt to answer but the fire had taken over. Watching her flesh turn to ash, she knew the consequences. Of this she knew for sure. That this, like all fires, can’t burn forever. And as she crumbled, breeze would waft into the room, as would the old man and his broom.
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
By Sara Grayum
Kara was twenty. She peered out over the rickety metal door enclosing a go-cart track as the wafting smell of chilidogs hit her nose. To her right were Luke and her big sister Jessica, each hand wrapped around the other, blending into one. To her left was an older gentleman with a four-toothed grin and a root-beer belly.
Once Luke and Jessica placed themselves in their bumper cars, Kara noticed the old man drifted off into what appeared to be an alcohol induced nap. To re-assure herself of this she slipped out the matches that were peaking above his breast pocket, never once breaking the old mans slumber. Once convinced of his inebriation, Kara began to peer over the rail, catching a glimpse of where the extra gas canisters were kept. Quietly, Kara grasped the red handle, taking a canister for herself.
Turning the canister upside down, Kara could feel the cold gas fall over her, giving her goose bumps as it covered every inch of her body. She laughed, as she sparked the match, watching as Jessica and Luke swooshed past her on the track, while she engulfed.
Goosebumps soon were replaced with the kind of enveloping warmth that only a shot of makers mark could create. Fires of this kind don’t burn for long, Kara heard the onlookers say, “I give her five minutes,” but she lasted all day. Oh, how Kara adored a low expectation. She loved nothing more, than when you finally exceed…. And their jaws are on the floor.
People huddled around her but not one hand was extended. Except for a few, who retrieved marshmallows, and scoured them in it. She was contagious, and it had felt nice to know. If Kara couldn’t be beautiful, at least she could illuminate them with her glow. She heard some question “How, why, or when?”
“I became a human torch, burning in the breeze,” she said. “And for once in my life, I feel free.”
“What?” the crowd jumped back. They’d never seen fire talk, especially words like that.
The sun settled behind clouds as Kara stood engulfed, admiring her golden hue. And as the fluorescent street lamps came on, she resembled a star. Her whole being sparkled.
“What… what are you doing, Kara?” Jessica exclaimed. “If you were seriously that cold I’m sure Luke would have given you his jacket! Wouldn’t you, Luke?” She persisted.
“Uh. Er… yeah, I guess… if you gave it back,” was Luke’s earnest response.
Kara made an attempt to answer but the fire had taken over. Watching her flesh turn to ash, she knew the consequences. Of this she knew for sure. That this, like all fires, can’t burn forever. And as she crumbled, breeze would waft into the room, as would the old man and his broom.
- - -
I've got my head in the clouds and my heart firmly planted in reality.
I own two blind chihuaha's, and one very high maintenance cat by the name of Jezebel.
I write for fun and/or because when my heart gets trampled on it helps to spew out my thoughts via poetry, ect.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
2/8/11
Logic
By Amy Walence
Before I knew
The reasons and processes,
The constraints, restraints, and quandaries
The questions...
I knew you.
Your shy, excited personality
shone brilliantly though
the placid exterior
in place for every other person
but me.
In time, I learned the questions
the concerns
the reasoning
you.
In time
I coaxed your vibrant, unique personality
beyond the placid exterior.
I shared your brilliance, your thoughtful dexterity.
I stood in awe, amazed by potential.
Your questions became my questions.
Our logic evolved into a unique entity.
Though answers were few and far between,
the reasoning was what mattered.
Our reasoning.
Inseparable, we traveled apartments, colleges, cities.
Our past times and free times and work times blended
into a pleasant routine,
supplemented by individual successes and failures.
Conversations dwindled
Routine was replaced by anxiety
Time consumed and problems unsolved
dissolved excitement
into a terrible force;
a question.
Will this work?
Unknowingly shocked by its existence
we reasoned, cried, argued, loved, and left each other
with a mutual unspoken goal in mind;
an answer.
Dynamics changed slowly as the unspoken force
ripped at our sanity and cut our words,
creating an unstable void
which we repeatedly tried to fill
with whatever we could find.
Over time,
denial worked its claws deep into meaning
as our half hearted smiles faded,
and our attempts dwindled.
The question lay unanswered
continuously perpetuating melancholy
until finally I realized what I'd lost;
understanding.
I knew the reasons and processes
The constraints, restraints, and quandaries
The questions...
But I no longer know you.
If there is a way to know everything and nothing at the same time,
I think I have found it.
- - -
Freed from sound logic and mind instigated by the constant emotional plight of a fresh breakup, Amy has finally broken the barrier between journalism and poetry.
By Amy Walence
Before I knew
The reasons and processes,
The constraints, restraints, and quandaries
The questions...
I knew you.
Your shy, excited personality
shone brilliantly though
the placid exterior
in place for every other person
but me.
In time, I learned the questions
the concerns
the reasoning
you.
In time
I coaxed your vibrant, unique personality
beyond the placid exterior.
I shared your brilliance, your thoughtful dexterity.
I stood in awe, amazed by potential.
Your questions became my questions.
Our logic evolved into a unique entity.
Though answers were few and far between,
the reasoning was what mattered.
Our reasoning.
Inseparable, we traveled apartments, colleges, cities.
Our past times and free times and work times blended
into a pleasant routine,
supplemented by individual successes and failures.
Conversations dwindled
Routine was replaced by anxiety
Time consumed and problems unsolved
dissolved excitement
into a terrible force;
a question.
Will this work?
Unknowingly shocked by its existence
we reasoned, cried, argued, loved, and left each other
with a mutual unspoken goal in mind;
an answer.
Dynamics changed slowly as the unspoken force
ripped at our sanity and cut our words,
creating an unstable void
which we repeatedly tried to fill
with whatever we could find.
Over time,
denial worked its claws deep into meaning
as our half hearted smiles faded,
and our attempts dwindled.
The question lay unanswered
continuously perpetuating melancholy
until finally I realized what I'd lost;
understanding.
I knew the reasons and processes
The constraints, restraints, and quandaries
The questions...
But I no longer know you.
If there is a way to know everything and nothing at the same time,
I think I have found it.
- - -
Freed from sound logic and mind instigated by the constant emotional plight of a fresh breakup, Amy has finally broken the barrier between journalism and poetry.
Monday, February 7, 2011
2/7/11
The Lover's Pantoum
By Harmonie Rosenberg
He makes fun of the way I pay twenty-two & tip for manicures
and claims it to be a “New York thing.”
In the Midwest girls work with their hands
so your reds and purples would never last.
The thing about New York is
we’re just like the rest of the nation,
only the reds and purples of dusk never last
behind our keyboard backdrop of buildings.
When the rest of the nations rests, he and I
survive on Simon & Garfunkel as he
builds a keyboard on my back, each skin a
shift, control, or space.
His simonized eyes survive my poetry,
each stanza an added string to the threads he engineers of me.
Ever shifting, we lose control of the space
between us and kiss instead of sleep.
Threadbare discrepancies on string theory and the
ten dimensions of this world steam up from us
to the ceiling fan, its wires kissing air and
panels stagnant, in need of his repairing hands.
He matches the tendrils of my curls with his piano playing
fingers, and lingers on the strands closest to my face.
The panels of wood that sleep on the floor are the lines on his hands,
a palm reading that grants a long luck-filled life.
Stranded in his apartment we waste close hours molding
my curves to his jaguared abdomen,
two palm trees branching life in tandem,
sturdy in our roots.
- - -
Harmonie is a student at the University of Miami where she majors in Creative Writing. She loves her family, traveling, dancing, her sorority, poetry, and the 'Canes!
By Harmonie Rosenberg
He makes fun of the way I pay twenty-two & tip for manicures
and claims it to be a “New York thing.”
In the Midwest girls work with their hands
so your reds and purples would never last.
The thing about New York is
we’re just like the rest of the nation,
only the reds and purples of dusk never last
behind our keyboard backdrop of buildings.
When the rest of the nations rests, he and I
survive on Simon & Garfunkel as he
builds a keyboard on my back, each skin a
shift, control, or space.
His simonized eyes survive my poetry,
each stanza an added string to the threads he engineers of me.
Ever shifting, we lose control of the space
between us and kiss instead of sleep.
Threadbare discrepancies on string theory and the
ten dimensions of this world steam up from us
to the ceiling fan, its wires kissing air and
panels stagnant, in need of his repairing hands.
He matches the tendrils of my curls with his piano playing
fingers, and lingers on the strands closest to my face.
The panels of wood that sleep on the floor are the lines on his hands,
a palm reading that grants a long luck-filled life.
Stranded in his apartment we waste close hours molding
my curves to his jaguared abdomen,
two palm trees branching life in tandem,
sturdy in our roots.
- - -
Harmonie is a student at the University of Miami where she majors in Creative Writing. She loves her family, traveling, dancing, her sorority, poetry, and the 'Canes!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
2/6/11
I saw my clone today
(and he was with some incredible babe)
By Tony Rauch
I saw myself at the market today. It was as if I were looking in a mirror. I just stood there, stunned. I mean he (or I) was standing farther away, looking over some tomatoes. He didn’t see me. I ducked behind a shelf to peek from a safe distance. And sure enough it was me, another me.
I saw my clone at the market. He was looking at some bright red tomatoes. But I don’t like tomatoes, a voice in my head shouted in confusion. He examined each juicy ripe tomato, dropping them one-by-one into a small paper bag. A woman sauntered up and put her arm around him. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. She was an incredible babe!
Then they turned and walked off. I ran to catch up, to find out what was going on, but there were so many people in the way, the market so crowded on a leisurely Saturday morning. I tried to catch up, but lost them in the crowd.
Where were they going? How did he (or I) get such a magnificent babe? What were they going to do? Were they going back to my place? What were they going to do today? Were they going to kiss? Hold hands? Aw, shucks, I bet they do that kind of stuff all the time. Lucky him. Wait for me! Wait for me! I darted my head, desperately searching, but they were gone, lost in the thick, churning masses.
For the rest of the day I was distracted. I didn’t get a thing done. I just kept thinking - how could someone be so lucky - to have such a nice girlfriend? When will that be me? When? I paced all around my apartment. The guy was me. That was me, as if stepping out from behind the curtain of another life, another possibility. I just kept thinking of this, getting so upset that I finally hopped on my bike and headed back to the market. I was hoping that maybe someone would recognize me as him and thus I could find out who he was and where he lived. Maybe they lived near that market. Maybe I could find them there, run into them on the sidewalk. Maybe I could ask him how he did it, how he attracted such a nice girl to him. I pedaled and pedaled, but other people on the street seemed to be pedaling faster than me, passing me with ease. I pedaled and pedaled, pumping as fast as I could, hoping I could catch up to him.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
(and he was with some incredible babe)
By Tony Rauch
I saw myself at the market today. It was as if I were looking in a mirror. I just stood there, stunned. I mean he (or I) was standing farther away, looking over some tomatoes. He didn’t see me. I ducked behind a shelf to peek from a safe distance. And sure enough it was me, another me.
I saw my clone at the market. He was looking at some bright red tomatoes. But I don’t like tomatoes, a voice in my head shouted in confusion. He examined each juicy ripe tomato, dropping them one-by-one into a small paper bag. A woman sauntered up and put her arm around him. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. She was an incredible babe!
Then they turned and walked off. I ran to catch up, to find out what was going on, but there were so many people in the way, the market so crowded on a leisurely Saturday morning. I tried to catch up, but lost them in the crowd.
Where were they going? How did he (or I) get such a magnificent babe? What were they going to do? Were they going back to my place? What were they going to do today? Were they going to kiss? Hold hands? Aw, shucks, I bet they do that kind of stuff all the time. Lucky him. Wait for me! Wait for me! I darted my head, desperately searching, but they were gone, lost in the thick, churning masses.
For the rest of the day I was distracted. I didn’t get a thing done. I just kept thinking - how could someone be so lucky - to have such a nice girlfriend? When will that be me? When? I paced all around my apartment. The guy was me. That was me, as if stepping out from behind the curtain of another life, another possibility. I just kept thinking of this, getting so upset that I finally hopped on my bike and headed back to the market. I was hoping that maybe someone would recognize me as him and thus I could find out who he was and where he lived. Maybe they lived near that market. Maybe I could find them there, run into them on the sidewalk. Maybe I could ask him how he did it, how he attracted such a nice girl to him. I pedaled and pedaled, but other people on the street seemed to be pedaling faster than me, passing me with ease. I pedaled and pedaled, pumping as fast as I could, hoping I could catch up to him.
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
Saturday, February 5, 2011
2/5/11
My Black Hearted Love
By Philip Suggars
The unicycle was Nick Cave's pride and joy. He used to clean it every Sunday. Dressed as always in his black jacket with its shiny elbows, skinny tie and black jeans, the wayward licks of his hair pushed over his ears or knotted behind his neck with a red scrunchy.
"Hello, Nicholas," I used to say, waving at him to catch his attention.
"Isn't she a beauty?" Nick Cave used to say, pointing to the unicycle's glinting frame, "as light as she is practical".
He'd sit cross-legged outside his house with a plastic bowl filled with sudsy water, the breeze blowing foam across the driveway like summer snow. Then he would set to cleaning every inch of the Unicycle with a toothbrush, taking breaks for a cup of tea and sometimes looking up at the sky, squinting as though expecting bad weather.
Each morning he would go for a ride on his unicycle, after polly, my wife, had left in her car. Polly had all of Nick Cave's records. They were sealed into plastic sleeves and arranged alphabetically. Next to them was a column of bootleg cassettes and a coffee table book of black and white concert photographs. An altar at the foot of our bed.
I don't know why I followed Nick Cave that particular morning. I hadn't slept well and had dreamt that a chorus of sirens camped on the rocks near boat house had been singing to me. In any case, as the sky bruised and Nick Cave rode his shining unicycle down the long black tongue of the coast road, I scurried after him, ducking behind bushes and sneaking through the long shadows of the pine forest at the edge of the track that led to the sea.
Nick Cave dismounted from the unicycle in a graceful bound and leant it against a boat hut. There, as I knew she would be, stood Polly in a white silk dress. I lay behind a dune. In a well practiced flourish Nick Cave removed his jacket and spread it on the sand, insisting that she sit.
"He's such a gentleman," I thought.
He produced three silver batons from his backpack, and tossed them up into the blue sky, juggling them into seamless orbits. Polly chuckled like a child. She "oo-ed" and she "ah-ed". When the performance was over Nick Cave produced a cheroot which Polly lit for him, her pale face glowing in a way I had not seen it do for years. And that was the moment when he reached into the pit of my stomach with those long, dextrous fingers of his and squeezed. I couldn't breathe. I knew what I had to do.
I crept up to his unicycle and pulled out my pen knife. I ran my hands around the tyre, past the thick, white treads that looked like dirty teeth, to the fleshy rim. I paused. The knife glinted red as it slipped into the rubber and gutted the tyre like a fish. It hissed and gurgled. I gripped it and pressed hard until it was empty and lifeless. When I'd finished Polly had already left Nick Cave stared out to sea, smoking the remains of his cheroot. I crept after Polly, my hands shaking.
It's autumn now and the wind blows the salt cold in from the sea, throwing leaves at our rattling windows. Nick Cave and I sit silently in creaking leather chairs across from the fire. The same fireplace where I watched the flames turn Polly's silk dress into whorls of curling ash. I think of the wind as it blows over that lonely mound of bare earth in the pine forest and I press my head against Nick Cave's chest. He places his long fingers on the back of my neck and I smile.
- - -
Philip Suggars is a London based writer with one huge eye in the centre of his head and an extensive collection of vintage binoculars. His story "An Unnatural History" won an honourable mention award in the 29th New Millennium Writings contest.
By Philip Suggars
The unicycle was Nick Cave's pride and joy. He used to clean it every Sunday. Dressed as always in his black jacket with its shiny elbows, skinny tie and black jeans, the wayward licks of his hair pushed over his ears or knotted behind his neck with a red scrunchy.
"Hello, Nicholas," I used to say, waving at him to catch his attention.
"Isn't she a beauty?" Nick Cave used to say, pointing to the unicycle's glinting frame, "as light as she is practical".
He'd sit cross-legged outside his house with a plastic bowl filled with sudsy water, the breeze blowing foam across the driveway like summer snow. Then he would set to cleaning every inch of the Unicycle with a toothbrush, taking breaks for a cup of tea and sometimes looking up at the sky, squinting as though expecting bad weather.
Each morning he would go for a ride on his unicycle, after polly, my wife, had left in her car. Polly had all of Nick Cave's records. They were sealed into plastic sleeves and arranged alphabetically. Next to them was a column of bootleg cassettes and a coffee table book of black and white concert photographs. An altar at the foot of our bed.
I don't know why I followed Nick Cave that particular morning. I hadn't slept well and had dreamt that a chorus of sirens camped on the rocks near boat house had been singing to me. In any case, as the sky bruised and Nick Cave rode his shining unicycle down the long black tongue of the coast road, I scurried after him, ducking behind bushes and sneaking through the long shadows of the pine forest at the edge of the track that led to the sea.
Nick Cave dismounted from the unicycle in a graceful bound and leant it against a boat hut. There, as I knew she would be, stood Polly in a white silk dress. I lay behind a dune. In a well practiced flourish Nick Cave removed his jacket and spread it on the sand, insisting that she sit.
"He's such a gentleman," I thought.
He produced three silver batons from his backpack, and tossed them up into the blue sky, juggling them into seamless orbits. Polly chuckled like a child. She "oo-ed" and she "ah-ed". When the performance was over Nick Cave produced a cheroot which Polly lit for him, her pale face glowing in a way I had not seen it do for years. And that was the moment when he reached into the pit of my stomach with those long, dextrous fingers of his and squeezed. I couldn't breathe. I knew what I had to do.
I crept up to his unicycle and pulled out my pen knife. I ran my hands around the tyre, past the thick, white treads that looked like dirty teeth, to the fleshy rim. I paused. The knife glinted red as it slipped into the rubber and gutted the tyre like a fish. It hissed and gurgled. I gripped it and pressed hard until it was empty and lifeless. When I'd finished Polly had already left Nick Cave stared out to sea, smoking the remains of his cheroot. I crept after Polly, my hands shaking.
It's autumn now and the wind blows the salt cold in from the sea, throwing leaves at our rattling windows. Nick Cave and I sit silently in creaking leather chairs across from the fire. The same fireplace where I watched the flames turn Polly's silk dress into whorls of curling ash. I think of the wind as it blows over that lonely mound of bare earth in the pine forest and I press my head against Nick Cave's chest. He places his long fingers on the back of my neck and I smile.
- - -
Philip Suggars is a London based writer with one huge eye in the centre of his head and an extensive collection of vintage binoculars. His story "An Unnatural History" won an honourable mention award in the 29th New Millennium Writings contest.
Friday, February 4, 2011
2/4/11
Tangible
By Mikayla Oglesby
yeah, well
pictures aren't worth everything-
maybe a thousand words,
but not the sound of a voice or
the whisper of a touch
or that moment when you met
and you just knew.
I couldn't give you a picture
to tell you this story
of a girl I met six months ago
who didn't take my breath,
but gave me air.
the crooked smile and the
bright eyes dimmed by reproduction
the nervous hands and the awkward, yet comfortable
silences and conversation,
and the littlest touches
that always seemed so overwhelming.
the shared cigarettes and habits
and the missed calls and exchanges
the constant waiting and looking
and hope that she'd still be there;
the hooks that caught and sunk and
never got cut loose
so there were never any ends to tie.
the looks and the hints of a smile
of a feeling, of a desperation
for something new and unknown
and overall, dangerous.
I could give you a picture,
it just wouldn't be fair.
- - -
I write just to get by.
By Mikayla Oglesby
yeah, well
pictures aren't worth everything-
maybe a thousand words,
but not the sound of a voice or
the whisper of a touch
or that moment when you met
and you just knew.
I couldn't give you a picture
to tell you this story
of a girl I met six months ago
who didn't take my breath,
but gave me air.
the crooked smile and the
bright eyes dimmed by reproduction
the nervous hands and the awkward, yet comfortable
silences and conversation,
and the littlest touches
that always seemed so overwhelming.
the shared cigarettes and habits
and the missed calls and exchanges
the constant waiting and looking
and hope that she'd still be there;
the hooks that caught and sunk and
never got cut loose
so there were never any ends to tie.
the looks and the hints of a smile
of a feeling, of a desperation
for something new and unknown
and overall, dangerous.
I could give you a picture,
it just wouldn't be fair.
- - -
I write just to get by.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
2/3/11
Barefoot Anarchy
By Michael Bagwell
We practiced barefoot anarchy
in the streets, a delicate ballet.
We played our gravel jazz
on the sidewalks, seductive
counterpoint pounded out
in metallic pangs.
We embraced a new citric mimicry,
devoid of the parched buoyancy.
We renounced the morbid compass,
a fascination with linearity.
Only to find ourselves as photographs,
compositions of toothpicks,
dog-eared and tattered,
chewed and rejected,
slowly covered by the sand.
- - -
Michael Bagwell is a student at West Chester University where he is studying English and Philosophy. He has been previously published in Dark Sky Magazine, Short, Fast and Deadly, and Collective Fallout, among others.
By Michael Bagwell
We practiced barefoot anarchy
in the streets, a delicate ballet.
We played our gravel jazz
on the sidewalks, seductive
counterpoint pounded out
in metallic pangs.
We embraced a new citric mimicry,
devoid of the parched buoyancy.
We renounced the morbid compass,
a fascination with linearity.
Only to find ourselves as photographs,
compositions of toothpicks,
dog-eared and tattered,
chewed and rejected,
slowly covered by the sand.
- - -
Michael Bagwell is a student at West Chester University where he is studying English and Philosophy. He has been previously published in Dark Sky Magazine, Short, Fast and Deadly, and Collective Fallout, among others.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
2/2/11
Frozen
By Alyssa
The last time we kissed was approximately two million, eight hundred fifty one thousand, and two hundred seconds ago. Numb tongues and chapped lips needing the connection while seventy proof refreshments blurred passion into what felt like a sixth grader’s first kiss. Somehow in a matter of days, things turned into pecks, texts, and awkward silences we didn’t know how to fill.
Then you were gone.
I would go back to those discombobulated lips in a heartbeat, if only I could do away with the five-foot radius, blank eyes, and the empty spot next to me on my two hundred thread count. If only…your heart still beat for me.
When insomnia presses on my eyes, all I think about is how my mattress feels so wrong without your strong arms to protect me from the dark. The snoring is gone. I miss the snoring, I do. I hate trying to sleep in silence. These winter nights pinch my toes without your radiating warmth. A heating blanket doesn’t feel the same as your pale chest moving up and down to a rhythm not found on the metronome I keep in my purse.
I hate how it’s so wrong for me to say three simple words without it making me a stereotypical woman, but that boat sailed when I started writing about you. I miss you. I could list all the things you took when you walked away that have turned into vacant spaces in my life, but that would take a while. I’ll settle for the ones I miss the most.
I miss the way you said, “You’re beautiful” as if it was common knowledge, mistaken by no one. I hate clichés, but your words sounded like music when you complimented me. Life’s a song, says the silver pendant always dangling between us from a small chain around my neck. I never stopped to think it meant that everything has an ending.
I miss the way you would crack your knuckles while we were holding hands and accidentally crush my fragile fingers. You always forgot, and eventually, I gave up reminding you, because I liked the way the squeezing let me know you were still holding on.
I miss the way your strong hands guided me where I needed to be without force or pressure. I always knew where I belonged in your life and in your arms. Now I feel like I’ve lost my GPS, and all that is Holy knows my generation doesn’t know how to read maps.
I miss the way your smile could change my day. Simple.
The saddest part is I even miss my pre-medication episodes. The horrible days when everything seemed out of place. You would lay with me and rub my back, reassuring me that I would be okay. It didn’t matter if I couldn’t speak or eat for days; you were patient, knowing my mind would return to my body in due time. You always waited for me.
Now you leave whenever you please with nothing but cordiality. Friendship. No kiss, no tender smile only meant for me. I receive the same bland farewell as the rest of the world, and that’s simply not good enough. I despise watching you walk away. It feels like there used to be an invisible rope hanging around both of our waists connecting us; now it’s visible for everyone to see how my lonely end droops on the ground like an abused puppy where it was cut in half.
Only time will heal a wound, freshly damaged daily by the poisoned apple of friendship. I am Snow White: stuck, frozen, paralyzed in loneliness and longing; only the taste of your lips again will make me come back to living. For me it feels like time has stopped. But my hourglass figure isn’t made of sand. It’s made of flesh, blood, and a beating heart; one that still beats for you.
- - -
Alyssa is a college girl who drinks too much, smokes too many cigarettes, and enjoys putting ink on paper as much as on her skin. She's a nostalgic, a romantic, and basically every other word in the English language pertaining to emotions. She resides and attends a University in the heights of an East coast mountain range. Her major is "something with writing" with a minor in classical piano, and her life is as crazy as her mood swings.
By Alyssa
The last time we kissed was approximately two million, eight hundred fifty one thousand, and two hundred seconds ago. Numb tongues and chapped lips needing the connection while seventy proof refreshments blurred passion into what felt like a sixth grader’s first kiss. Somehow in a matter of days, things turned into pecks, texts, and awkward silences we didn’t know how to fill.
Then you were gone.
I would go back to those discombobulated lips in a heartbeat, if only I could do away with the five-foot radius, blank eyes, and the empty spot next to me on my two hundred thread count. If only…your heart still beat for me.
When insomnia presses on my eyes, all I think about is how my mattress feels so wrong without your strong arms to protect me from the dark. The snoring is gone. I miss the snoring, I do. I hate trying to sleep in silence. These winter nights pinch my toes without your radiating warmth. A heating blanket doesn’t feel the same as your pale chest moving up and down to a rhythm not found on the metronome I keep in my purse.
I hate how it’s so wrong for me to say three simple words without it making me a stereotypical woman, but that boat sailed when I started writing about you. I miss you. I could list all the things you took when you walked away that have turned into vacant spaces in my life, but that would take a while. I’ll settle for the ones I miss the most.
I miss the way you said, “You’re beautiful” as if it was common knowledge, mistaken by no one. I hate clichés, but your words sounded like music when you complimented me. Life’s a song, says the silver pendant always dangling between us from a small chain around my neck. I never stopped to think it meant that everything has an ending.
I miss the way you would crack your knuckles while we were holding hands and accidentally crush my fragile fingers. You always forgot, and eventually, I gave up reminding you, because I liked the way the squeezing let me know you were still holding on.
I miss the way your strong hands guided me where I needed to be without force or pressure. I always knew where I belonged in your life and in your arms. Now I feel like I’ve lost my GPS, and all that is Holy knows my generation doesn’t know how to read maps.
I miss the way your smile could change my day. Simple.
The saddest part is I even miss my pre-medication episodes. The horrible days when everything seemed out of place. You would lay with me and rub my back, reassuring me that I would be okay. It didn’t matter if I couldn’t speak or eat for days; you were patient, knowing my mind would return to my body in due time. You always waited for me.
Now you leave whenever you please with nothing but cordiality. Friendship. No kiss, no tender smile only meant for me. I receive the same bland farewell as the rest of the world, and that’s simply not good enough. I despise watching you walk away. It feels like there used to be an invisible rope hanging around both of our waists connecting us; now it’s visible for everyone to see how my lonely end droops on the ground like an abused puppy where it was cut in half.
Only time will heal a wound, freshly damaged daily by the poisoned apple of friendship. I am Snow White: stuck, frozen, paralyzed in loneliness and longing; only the taste of your lips again will make me come back to living. For me it feels like time has stopped. But my hourglass figure isn’t made of sand. It’s made of flesh, blood, and a beating heart; one that still beats for you.
- - -
Alyssa is a college girl who drinks too much, smokes too many cigarettes, and enjoys putting ink on paper as much as on her skin. She's a nostalgic, a romantic, and basically every other word in the English language pertaining to emotions. She resides and attends a University in the heights of an East coast mountain range. Her major is "something with writing" with a minor in classical piano, and her life is as crazy as her mood swings.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
2/1/11
Recruiting Anne
By Chuck Von Nordheim
Anne knew the afternoon with Darren Waggoner had to be a dream, an enchantment that would fade. She knew the laughter that throbbed out of him, even though her heart vibrated to it, belonged to someone else. She knew she reminded him of who he had been, but that she was not who he remembered.
Darren began by being annoying as a fly that kept landing on your arm just long enough to make your skin tingle before buzzing off. “Hey,” he said. She stayed focused on the finance major she was checking in. “Hey,” he said again. Every day, jerks tried to skip standing in line by faking friendship with whoever did Writing Center in-flow. “Anne,” he said, “Hey.” Anne and the other tutors petitioned to do front desk duty without name-badges to foil said jerks, but nothing changed at Taft State. “Anne Green,” he said, “From Mrs. Alvarez’s American history class.” Then everything buzzed with change because Darren Waggoner landed in your in-flow looking as dimpled and blue-eyed as ever.
Anne accepted the following the facts: 1) boys voted high school kings sought upscale princesses, 2) princesses bought their clothes in magical realms like Rodeo Drive, and 3) those who wore thrift store clothes played the peasant in that kingdom. Kings might get a kick out of slumming; servant girls might thrill as he galloped by. But, in the end, the habits of peasants made them too uncouth for the palace.
Darren fizzed with enthusiasm for Taft State, the future, life; listening made her happily woozy as sipping Merlot. “Got a medical early out,” he said, “Probably more a blessing than a curse since I was pretty scary on a dance floor.” Sodas banged down vending machine chutes as they talked and the microwave oven dinged; usually Anne found the Miller Hall snack zone stark as sodium-vapor streetlights, but today it felt comfy as a bonfire. “Seems a lot longer than three years since Garfield High,” he said. “Maybe it’s because I went so far away. Get enough range and your sight picture completely changes.” The money spent at malls upgrading her thrift store look mattered not all to him; Darren’s sniper gaze locked only on her eyes. “Let me score you a real cappuccino instead of this swill from the machine. Least I can do if you’re going to help me with my paper.” Darren then shifted to conversation to the weird things he obsessed about when he was in Iraq, such as the shape of classic Coca-Cola bottles and to how many decimal places he could calculate pi in his head.
Anne flashed her Java Junkie discount card when Darren paid for their mugs of Sumatra; she had drunk coffee with boys wide-shouldered as him, but not as dimpled. Those other boys had paid Anne with soulful glances and bids urging hearts as trump. Those other boys reneged each and all, leaving her with what she held on her own.
Darren slapped Anne’s shoulder like a fan at a football game; electric tingles pulsed from where he whacked her. “Wow,” he said. “You make me sound as squared away as a West Point grad.” The espresso machine fumed, scenting the air with foamed milk. “Your big brain shrunk the rest of us to mental midgets back at Garfield,” he said. “That’s why you got so much flak. It was a schoolyard tactical consideration. You’d have towered over us if we didn’t make you keep your head down.” Darren’s sincerity stopped Anne from spurting something about her brain not being the only big thing about her; his voice lacked any lilt of mockery and that discombobulated her protective machinery of self-deprecation. “I missed out on getting to know you then because I was scared,” he said. “That’s the one good thing about deploying. You get over fear.” Darren then went on a jag about the thrill of speeding down a twisty California highway a hundred feet above the Pacific surf on a weekend pass three days before he flew to Baghdad.
Anne admitted to herself, as she often did, that her behavioral model of fairytale driven pair-offs left out some painful data-points. Control for class and fashion accessories and plus-size Juliette remains a mismatch for welterweight Romeo. And part of the reason for the new clothes is that the biometric disparity between her and Darren had increased.
Darren squatted next to her, so close his breath warmed her ear lobe. “You zapped all the passives my professor wigs out about,” he said. “Now you rocket through when you read it.” A mop plopped on tile as a barista swabbed the lobby. “They’re closing up,” he said. “I took too much of your time.” When he reached to pluck his jump-drive from her laptop, the firm curve of his right pectoral slid across the flab of her upper arm. “You must have missed chow at the dorm dining hall,” he said. “I owe you dinner.” As he led her to the door, Darren analyzed the various species of roller coaster he had ridden and came to the conclusion that Cedar Point’s classic Blue Streak still topped his list.
Anne submitted to his invitation without a word, surprised by the deviation in the familiar pattern. The other boys dumped her once they got what they wanted. The other boys left her on the curb in front of her dorm watching their taillights dwindle.
Darren guided her to the hostess stand, an index finger gently pushing where the shaft of her spine plunged into her pelvis. “One thing you learn out there,” he said, “Is how important it is to find someone who’s got your back.” The smell of the pan-crisped steak fries that came with her French Dip, rife with garlic and rosemary, made Anne’s mouth sop with saliva. “Hollywood hype can bite you in the butt,” he said. “Gung-ho G.I. Joes are generally worthless.” Anne saw her face reflected in the surface of her Diet Pepsi; she tipped her head hoping to look less double-chinned. “You find a troop with the right stuff,” he said, “You go for broke getting them on your roster.” Darren then discussed how he found the sinusoidal waves on oscilloscopes soothing when he repaired radios between patrols.
Anne wished she could be ordered to go outside the wire under the command of this man, but the 2X body she had been issued put her in another army. Her destined captain would likely be the type of man who led electronic legions without bothering to bathe while slouched on sofa. She could dream, though, while this hunky guy locked his eyes on hers, of alternate worlds; then, suddenly, the dream shifted to nightmare.
Darren ordered her a banana split. “Morons enlist for bennies,” he said, “The ones that sign up just to get a VA giveaway, they’re the ones who crap their BDUs every mortar whoosh.” The waitress clanked down a surreal sculpture, white vanilla bleeding brown caramel, yellow pineapple, red strawberry. “I drew plans for a mansion with hidden passages and a helipad in the fifth grade,” he said, “I’ve revised it to three bedrooms and a yard for dogs seeing as how the VA won’t front for secret doors behind sliding bookcases.” Anne left fingerprints on misted metal as she pushed the sundae away. “I learned how to be a good follower,” he said, “I’m sure executing a boss’s ops plan for a system upgrade will be cake after taking down insurgent bomb factories.” Darren then jawed about toys and how he had loved making elaborate scrawls with a Spirograph.
Anne despaired as awareness sunk in that the entire evening had been a set-up for a cruel joke. She refused to take the bait, to react to the insult. She would not give him that satisfaction.
Darren slid the dessert back. “We’ll tap the VA to get start-up money for our own outfit eventually,” he said. “There’s a time to pull things down, there’s a time to build them up. Even if there’s no dollars in it, I want do stuff like write code to make their water pumps work better.” Mounds of whipped cream quivered like a scared cat when Anne gave the sundae a lateral prod. “A project like that wouldn’t be a go without a word guru to write pitches and grant proposals.” Anne dug her nails into her thighs to keep from crying tears of humiliation. “You need to recruit a top troop to make the mission work.” Darren then yakked about the squiggle in the Yin/Yang symbol and his theory regarding the combination of opposed opposites as he nudged the banana split back in front of her.
Anne shoved the dessert at Darren. “I know I’m a big girl,” she said. She listened to the metal dish screech across the table. “People like you have been making me aware of that fact all my life,” she said. She heard it smack against Darren’s palms as he stopped it from spinning off the table. “But I will not sit here and let you poke fun at me. I said goodbye to Garfield High and now I’m saying goodbye to you.”
Darren grabbed her before she ran out. “Wait,” he said, “My signal got garbled.” Pine-scented cologne wafted into Anne’s nostrils, a forest she wanted to set on fire. “I nearly died,” he said. “And it woke me up. I vowed I was going to live life for me. Not to impress parents. Not to please friends. Not to live up to anyone’s standards. I refused to adios wondering about what might have been if only I had the balls to go after what I really wanted.” Anne could have fled when he released her upper arms and his hands rustled down her dress to the small of back, but she stayed. “I didn’t think I pulled down enough IQ to interest you,” he said, “And I worried way too much about the other kids would say. I’m sorry. Give me a second go, Anne. Honest to God, that roadside bomb scared all the asshole right out of me.” And then, as his hands slid to her hips, Darren whispered that the thing he loved most was curves and that he hoped to spend the rest of his life exploring every inch of them she had.
Anne walked to the table. She would need to revise to her model of human behavior. Some enchantments endured. Some kings like their queens queen-sized.
Anne and Darren both held the handle of the spoon. Syrup-sticky hands stuck and broke free, making noises like a suckling child. They would guide other things together soon.
- - -
Chuck now enjoys the pleasures of a G.I. bill funded education after serving in the United States Air Force for 22 years. His work has recently appeared in 10Flash and Every Day Poets.
By Chuck Von Nordheim
Anne knew the afternoon with Darren Waggoner had to be a dream, an enchantment that would fade. She knew the laughter that throbbed out of him, even though her heart vibrated to it, belonged to someone else. She knew she reminded him of who he had been, but that she was not who he remembered.
Darren began by being annoying as a fly that kept landing on your arm just long enough to make your skin tingle before buzzing off. “Hey,” he said. She stayed focused on the finance major she was checking in. “Hey,” he said again. Every day, jerks tried to skip standing in line by faking friendship with whoever did Writing Center in-flow. “Anne,” he said, “Hey.” Anne and the other tutors petitioned to do front desk duty without name-badges to foil said jerks, but nothing changed at Taft State. “Anne Green,” he said, “From Mrs. Alvarez’s American history class.” Then everything buzzed with change because Darren Waggoner landed in your in-flow looking as dimpled and blue-eyed as ever.
Anne accepted the following the facts: 1) boys voted high school kings sought upscale princesses, 2) princesses bought their clothes in magical realms like Rodeo Drive, and 3) those who wore thrift store clothes played the peasant in that kingdom. Kings might get a kick out of slumming; servant girls might thrill as he galloped by. But, in the end, the habits of peasants made them too uncouth for the palace.
Darren fizzed with enthusiasm for Taft State, the future, life; listening made her happily woozy as sipping Merlot. “Got a medical early out,” he said, “Probably more a blessing than a curse since I was pretty scary on a dance floor.” Sodas banged down vending machine chutes as they talked and the microwave oven dinged; usually Anne found the Miller Hall snack zone stark as sodium-vapor streetlights, but today it felt comfy as a bonfire. “Seems a lot longer than three years since Garfield High,” he said. “Maybe it’s because I went so far away. Get enough range and your sight picture completely changes.” The money spent at malls upgrading her thrift store look mattered not all to him; Darren’s sniper gaze locked only on her eyes. “Let me score you a real cappuccino instead of this swill from the machine. Least I can do if you’re going to help me with my paper.” Darren then shifted to conversation to the weird things he obsessed about when he was in Iraq, such as the shape of classic Coca-Cola bottles and to how many decimal places he could calculate pi in his head.
Anne flashed her Java Junkie discount card when Darren paid for their mugs of Sumatra; she had drunk coffee with boys wide-shouldered as him, but not as dimpled. Those other boys had paid Anne with soulful glances and bids urging hearts as trump. Those other boys reneged each and all, leaving her with what she held on her own.
Darren slapped Anne’s shoulder like a fan at a football game; electric tingles pulsed from where he whacked her. “Wow,” he said. “You make me sound as squared away as a West Point grad.” The espresso machine fumed, scenting the air with foamed milk. “Your big brain shrunk the rest of us to mental midgets back at Garfield,” he said. “That’s why you got so much flak. It was a schoolyard tactical consideration. You’d have towered over us if we didn’t make you keep your head down.” Darren’s sincerity stopped Anne from spurting something about her brain not being the only big thing about her; his voice lacked any lilt of mockery and that discombobulated her protective machinery of self-deprecation. “I missed out on getting to know you then because I was scared,” he said. “That’s the one good thing about deploying. You get over fear.” Darren then went on a jag about the thrill of speeding down a twisty California highway a hundred feet above the Pacific surf on a weekend pass three days before he flew to Baghdad.
Anne admitted to herself, as she often did, that her behavioral model of fairytale driven pair-offs left out some painful data-points. Control for class and fashion accessories and plus-size Juliette remains a mismatch for welterweight Romeo. And part of the reason for the new clothes is that the biometric disparity between her and Darren had increased.
Darren squatted next to her, so close his breath warmed her ear lobe. “You zapped all the passives my professor wigs out about,” he said. “Now you rocket through when you read it.” A mop plopped on tile as a barista swabbed the lobby. “They’re closing up,” he said. “I took too much of your time.” When he reached to pluck his jump-drive from her laptop, the firm curve of his right pectoral slid across the flab of her upper arm. “You must have missed chow at the dorm dining hall,” he said. “I owe you dinner.” As he led her to the door, Darren analyzed the various species of roller coaster he had ridden and came to the conclusion that Cedar Point’s classic Blue Streak still topped his list.
Anne submitted to his invitation without a word, surprised by the deviation in the familiar pattern. The other boys dumped her once they got what they wanted. The other boys left her on the curb in front of her dorm watching their taillights dwindle.
Darren guided her to the hostess stand, an index finger gently pushing where the shaft of her spine plunged into her pelvis. “One thing you learn out there,” he said, “Is how important it is to find someone who’s got your back.” The smell of the pan-crisped steak fries that came with her French Dip, rife with garlic and rosemary, made Anne’s mouth sop with saliva. “Hollywood hype can bite you in the butt,” he said. “Gung-ho G.I. Joes are generally worthless.” Anne saw her face reflected in the surface of her Diet Pepsi; she tipped her head hoping to look less double-chinned. “You find a troop with the right stuff,” he said, “You go for broke getting them on your roster.” Darren then discussed how he found the sinusoidal waves on oscilloscopes soothing when he repaired radios between patrols.
Anne wished she could be ordered to go outside the wire under the command of this man, but the 2X body she had been issued put her in another army. Her destined captain would likely be the type of man who led electronic legions without bothering to bathe while slouched on sofa. She could dream, though, while this hunky guy locked his eyes on hers, of alternate worlds; then, suddenly, the dream shifted to nightmare.
Darren ordered her a banana split. “Morons enlist for bennies,” he said, “The ones that sign up just to get a VA giveaway, they’re the ones who crap their BDUs every mortar whoosh.” The waitress clanked down a surreal sculpture, white vanilla bleeding brown caramel, yellow pineapple, red strawberry. “I drew plans for a mansion with hidden passages and a helipad in the fifth grade,” he said, “I’ve revised it to three bedrooms and a yard for dogs seeing as how the VA won’t front for secret doors behind sliding bookcases.” Anne left fingerprints on misted metal as she pushed the sundae away. “I learned how to be a good follower,” he said, “I’m sure executing a boss’s ops plan for a system upgrade will be cake after taking down insurgent bomb factories.” Darren then jawed about toys and how he had loved making elaborate scrawls with a Spirograph.
Anne despaired as awareness sunk in that the entire evening had been a set-up for a cruel joke. She refused to take the bait, to react to the insult. She would not give him that satisfaction.
Darren slid the dessert back. “We’ll tap the VA to get start-up money for our own outfit eventually,” he said. “There’s a time to pull things down, there’s a time to build them up. Even if there’s no dollars in it, I want do stuff like write code to make their water pumps work better.” Mounds of whipped cream quivered like a scared cat when Anne gave the sundae a lateral prod. “A project like that wouldn’t be a go without a word guru to write pitches and grant proposals.” Anne dug her nails into her thighs to keep from crying tears of humiliation. “You need to recruit a top troop to make the mission work.” Darren then yakked about the squiggle in the Yin/Yang symbol and his theory regarding the combination of opposed opposites as he nudged the banana split back in front of her.
Anne shoved the dessert at Darren. “I know I’m a big girl,” she said. She listened to the metal dish screech across the table. “People like you have been making me aware of that fact all my life,” she said. She heard it smack against Darren’s palms as he stopped it from spinning off the table. “But I will not sit here and let you poke fun at me. I said goodbye to Garfield High and now I’m saying goodbye to you.”
Darren grabbed her before she ran out. “Wait,” he said, “My signal got garbled.” Pine-scented cologne wafted into Anne’s nostrils, a forest she wanted to set on fire. “I nearly died,” he said. “And it woke me up. I vowed I was going to live life for me. Not to impress parents. Not to please friends. Not to live up to anyone’s standards. I refused to adios wondering about what might have been if only I had the balls to go after what I really wanted.” Anne could have fled when he released her upper arms and his hands rustled down her dress to the small of back, but she stayed. “I didn’t think I pulled down enough IQ to interest you,” he said, “And I worried way too much about the other kids would say. I’m sorry. Give me a second go, Anne. Honest to God, that roadside bomb scared all the asshole right out of me.” And then, as his hands slid to her hips, Darren whispered that the thing he loved most was curves and that he hoped to spend the rest of his life exploring every inch of them she had.
Anne walked to the table. She would need to revise to her model of human behavior. Some enchantments endured. Some kings like their queens queen-sized.
Anne and Darren both held the handle of the spoon. Syrup-sticky hands stuck and broke free, making noises like a suckling child. They would guide other things together soon.
- - -
Chuck now enjoys the pleasures of a G.I. bill funded education after serving in the United States Air Force for 22 years. His work has recently appeared in 10Flash and Every Day Poets.
