4/30/11

Lamenting Elation
By Danielle Purcell


I watch him run, striding
effortlessly, gracefully,
as when the sun rises
bringing everything to life.

His muscles contract,
bulging through his brown hide,
screaming with heat.

His jaw is clenched,
etched perfectly,
chiseled with accuracy,
directly from God's finger.

His jet-black mane is blowing wildly
by the wind, cracking
on his thick neck,
leaving small knots
among his coarse strands.

He grunts, nostrils flared,
showing a sign of being tired.
But he continues,
as if to please me.
For every inch of his body
is pulsating with eagerness,
wanting to impress me.

I watch him, galloping
Elegantly, fluently
through the meadow,
racing
the wind.

I can hear
the trembling
of the earth,
the beating
of our hearts, and
the echoing
of my eager attention
on parting imprints
left on my soul.

For as he strides
towards the distant horizon,
he is engulfed in a golden glow.
My eyes are blinded
by a flash of sun
and an ache
in my heart.

He is nearly gone.
Forever.


- - -
Danielle Purcell is currently attending Gonzaga University School of Law in Washington state. Although she grew up in Florida, and has had the privilege to travel and see many places, she loves the west-coast and hopes to stay there after graduating. Her passion for words and creativity has been with her from an early age, but her attempt to share this passion with others has just begun.

4/29/11

WAKING BESIDE YOU
By John Grey


There's a sense of acclamation,
of the morning bird song paying tribute,
of being raised for a moment with no effort,
as if I am floating with my eyes barely open

and the air swells beneath me like a wave
then lands me softly at your side,
and I feel an unbroken connection
between my left arm and your right,

a seamlessness, an intermingling
as even your intentions fuse with mine -
the future has these moments coming -
our life together sets the bar.


- - -
I’ve been published recently in the Talking River, South Carolina Review and Karamu with work upcoming in Prism International, Poem and the Evansville Review.

4/28/11

I’m Late
By FearnHouse


Time is being spent
and I’m about to be in debt
Class in fifteen minutes
yet I’m prohibited from departing
You entice me with your aroma
and stay, I must
I take a swing or two, contact
on each, and I’m blown away
by each, as time keeps on progressing


Soon concepts of triple integrals and Jacobians
will purge my mind of ‘wandering thought’
as concentrate, I must
But right meow
I indulge for a bit—
again, on time I do not possess
(traffic will surely be a bitch)—
My brain races
thinking of the jubilant night
I have planned with my friends,
despues pasar por tiempo contigo
por un poco, por su puesto


Rationality kicks in
and I get my books ready
I hate to leave, but tell you we’ll
do our tango
once class lets loose
I set out on my trek
and wish for a short lesson


- - -
I am 20 (almost 21) years old and am attending Harper College, working towards a degree in Mathematics Education. Writing is something that I have a passion for and enjoy thoroughly. I look forward to pursuing this quest.

4/27/11

What Matters
By Anonymous


Beauty isn’t much,
It may be pretty and such,
Yet its deceiving
Leaving lovers misbelieving.
What matters is the soul and the mind
Of a unique person, one of a kind.
They are hard to find
But they’ll leave themselves signed
On your heart. You wont want to let go,
Once you get to know
Their beautiful spirit and mind.
You’ll want them for the taking
Believe me, it's True Love in the making.


- - -

4/26/11

Needing to Begin. Yet Again
By A.J. Huffman


I recognized the silence.
Beating.
Through the blackness
of my sleep
as I rolled back.
To you
in the night.
And I knew
if I held my breath
I would hear nothing
where you should lie.

I forced
first my hand,
then my eyes,
to find you.
Knowing
that it was already too late.
Knowing
that their prize was this
one final dream.
Already fading
beneath my fingers’ touch.
Knowing
that you were gone.
Off now.
Following your eyes.
Those beautiful eyes.
That died.
The instant we kissed.


- - -
A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously published her work in literary journals, in the U.K. as well as America, such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Eastern Rainbow, Medicinal Purposes Literary Review, The Intercultural Writer's Review, Icon, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find A.J. Huffman, and additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 .

4/25/11

NEXT
By Nicole Resnick


Drain the vein—
I do not need this
memory of you
laughing
happy
like:
children and ice cream,
Christmas and snow.


Why do you tug
at this
piece of hollow
vase.

I know I am
a number tucked inside
your pocket,
saved for a rainy day


- - -
My name is Nicole Resnick. I am a current graduate from CU Boulder and I love writing poems about love and the hurt it can sometimes cause. Each of these poems describes the hurt that love can have on someone and how sometimes the pain that doesn't go away.

4/22/11

Through Silence
By Shannon


Her laugh cuts through the silence, a trickle of bells like water, dispelling the atmospheric tensions and balmy pretensions of the old stone church. She darts through the stolid wood pews, shoes clacking against ancient tiles. Her smile is unrepentant, perhaps even mischievous, leaving no room for censure, only begging adoration.

“Sorry,” she exclaims in a half-whisper as she sits down in the seat next to him, a final sounding whuff of expensive fabrics expelling a cloud of dust and incense that mingles curiously with her fresh, fruity scent, “I’m late.” Where there should have been a bashful half-smile, there is instead a full on grin.

He can’t help but grin back, though his reaction is delayed due to his intense fascination. She gets more beautiful every time he sees her, and his smile lines grow deeper day by day, clearly visible now as his smirk extends fully, misplaced in the silent room.

“How long have you been here?” Worry lines touch her ivory brow, and it takes all his will not to smooth them away, not to trail his thumb down her cheek to those pink, rosebud lips.

“Not long,” His voice even sounds reasonably solid. “Besides, I told you to get here half an hour before we’re supposed to start.” This statement is followed by a twinkling smirk. He ducks his head to avoid her reprimanding wallop.

“I ran, Jamie,” she complains, as if it were a horrible sacrifice. She tucks a wildly curling strand of blonde hair behind her ear, turning away in mock annoyance. Jamie fights the urge to run his fingers through that brilliant, golden mane. “Do you know how hard it is to run in these?” She offers her high, sexy heels up for his inspection. He pretends to study them intently, and then looks up at her through his lashes with an amused expression.

“You know, you could have taken them off.” She looks like she’s fighting the urge to hit him again. She tosses her mass of curls over her shoulder in agitation.

“You don’t know anything, Jamie,” but she says it so fondly that there’s no room or cause for injured pride.

“You always say that, Katie,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his neck. Choosing to ignore him, she cranes her neck to look at the back door of the chapel.

“You think she’d at least be on time,” Jamie thinks he hears her grumble.

“Hypocrite,” he nudges her. She turns her nose up delicately.

Companionable silence passes, during which time Katie amuses herself by shuffling her fancy shoes back and forth over the old floors and stealing glances at Jamie when his attention is drawn away from watching her by a noise in the back of the church or a creaking of the large, wooden doors.

In profile, Jamie is even more handsome, Katie realizes, though it is a shame to only be able to see one of his mesmerizing eyes. She can’t remember when he became so handsome. It seemed to happen gradually, then all of the sudden, like a glass filling, filling, filling with rain water until suddenly it overflows.

She watches him, noting the way his hands are quiet, without the nervous fidgeting of most men, especially on a day like today. Appearing out of nowhere, a breeze stirs his dark hair and her fingers literarily twitch to touch the feathery softness.

He glances at her and his solemn expression turns mirthful, a smile tugging his perfect lips. She cannot help but answer with one of her own, teeth tugging at her bottom lip before joining in a full on smile. His smirk turns into a grin, her smile into a laugh, and then they are laughing together, clutching their sides, her waterfall bells dancing with his rumbling chuckle.

The silence has been split in two, annihilated, and then a loud noise startles them both. Hair falling in a curtain about her face, she quiets, eyes holding Jamie’s from behind the golden veil in shared amusement for just a moment before they straighten to discern the source of the sound.

When she identifies the noise maker, her mood evaporates entirely. It was no phantom breeze that stirred Jamie’s locks, but the movement of air caused by the opening of the church door, which created the loud sound at its closing. The arrival of a small, redhead and an old, stooping priest were the source of the commotion.

The sound of her voice splits the uneasy silence, silence that descends as rapidly as it had previously been dispelled.

“Margaret’s here,” Katie whispers, unnecessarily. Visible even from a distance is the flash of Margaret’s keen eyes between the man and woman. She holds the priests arm as they begin to descend down the aisle.

Jamie stands, offering a hand to Katie, and together they watch the slow progression, joining the pair in the journey to the altar when they draw near. The four progress together; it is as much funeral march as wedding procession.

No one speaks until they reach the pool of glowing light at the aisle’s end.

“This is your witness?” The priest addresses Jamie who nods. “Then we can begin.” The red head’s hand leaves the priest’s arm and floats like a descending spider onto Jamie’s. His eyes meet Katie’s, but she cannot decipher the web of emotions floating there.

“Go,” she says, quietly, almost no sound left in her voice, like a ship who’s sails have been deflated. Mustering a weak look of encouragement, she backs away from the couple. Margaret never once makes eye contact with her.

The words flit on, running away from them like ill behaved children. Jamie cannot catch hold of the events unfolding, and Katie sees more tension enter him with every sentence. Margaret’s claws sinks deeper into Jamie’s arm with each syllable.

She’s holding her breath, unable to move. There will be a moment when she has to act, but what can she say? Jamie, I hate your wife-to-be. Jamie, this is a mistake. Jamie, I love you.

He can’t see her face in his peripheral vision, can’t catch her eyes to tell her to free him. Exactly what is her doing here? There will come a moment when he has to speak, to answer. Affirmative or negative, but no one chooses the latter. What can he say? Margaret, I’m sorry. Margaret, I can’t. Katie, I love you.

No.

The moments almost there, almost there, and he feels as if he will collapse under the tension of indecision. The flickering candles cast the scene in an unreal light. If only he could see her face.

Her chance comes, his chance to look at her. With arms wrapped around her middle as if to contain an outpouring flood, she stands to the side. Her eyes are shielded by long, dark lashes, head downcast, mouth open, as if to speak. But Margaret hurries the priest along, and Jamie looks away, still unsure.

Now his part is coming, the inquiry begins in the droning, nasally voice of the elderly man. Still he does not know, though his heart cries out wretchedly. The query is finished, the question mark hanging in the air almost visibly.

And he hears an intake of breath, almost like a sob. The choice is wrenched from him like the bursting of a dam. And he’s spinning around, eyes consuming her face, her luminescent eyes, her down turned lips, the single seed pearl tear clinging to her lashes.

Katie doesn’t hear him speak, so complete is her misery. She hadn’t spoken, and she would have no peace. This is the moment. But somehow he’s turning away, eyes fixed on her face. She can’t tear her gaze away. Jamie places one big hand on her face, turning her chin up, thumb caressing her lips. The contact sends thrills of fire through her, but they are nearly dampened by trepidation. They stand a moment, frozen by years of tradition.

She lifts her hand to cover his where it has wandered to cup her cheek.”I object,” she murmurs, voice soft and private. His heart jumps into his throat, so when he speaks his voice is rusty.

“I don’t,” he answers, but it is not her he addresses, his head has turned away, slowly, almost unwillingly to answer the priest’s question, “I’m sorry, Margaret.” He adds this because he is a good man who hates to have gone back on his word. But then their audience is forgotten.

Jamie smiles down at his long-time best friend who smiles back in perfect harmony. Somewhere behind them a redhead storms out accompanied by an indignant priest.

“I love you, Katie,” Jamie says. His voice is all tenderness.

“Love you more, James,” she teases. He shakes his head, still grinning.

“What am I going to do with you?” Her expression turns mischievous.

“I think you’re finally going to kiss me,” she answers. His lips lean down to capture hers.

“I think you’re right,” he murmurs, lips just barely separated from hers. It seems to take an eternity, and at the same time only a fraction of an instant. Then they’re kissing, fire bursting through her unhampered by doubt. The kiss is years of waiting and watching, days and months of memories not tinged by unrequited hopes, forever almost lost.

Jamie is becoming addicted to the taste of her soft lips against his own. He places his hands on her waist, drawing her close, pouring everything never said into the kiss. And she accepts it, pushing closer, trying to make up for almost losing him.

There are no words to break the silence, so the silence willingly withdraws its pressing force, even such a place has room for lovers. They are a burning core of molten fire in the empty room, glowing with passionate, desperate, gentle, tender kisses, soft whispered words and holding each other close.


- - -
Shannon is a high school senior on a small island in the Chesapeake Bay. Her island may be picturesque like a fairy tale, but she has never before written anything quite this fluffy.

4/21/11

ANESTHESIA
By Nicole Resnick


You are the lead
penciled in the doorway
of my childhood.

I cannot paint
over you
a lens graphed,
a needle inked red.
you seep into
the hole called
memory, a muscle
thumping in frost


- - -
My name is Nicole Resnick. I am a current graduate from CU Boulder and I love writing poems about love and the hurt it can sometimes cause. Each of these poems describes the hurt that love can have on someone and how sometimes the pain that doesn't go away.

4/20/11

That Soulful Look
By K.Balachandran


Ask me to forget just any thing,
But not that look that hooked
Me to you for life, for all times,
To come, whatever it takes.
Never would I be able to forget,
The moment, those soulful eyes,
Delved deep into my psyche.
In that connect, codes of the
Vaults to the heart's secrets
Got transferred, forever.
And how quick it all happened!
Even without leaving a breather
To think and wonder 'Hey,what is this?'
Is this what they call,
Alchemy of the hearts?
Never did I think it would be possible,
When in this moment,
A pearl, invaluable, falls like this,
Into my open palms,
What more is left for me to ask?
What is there in just a look?
Don't ask, to me but to that moment.
Presented itself, that was
In the womb of time,
Waiting to see the light.
You and I are to be the
Instruments to it's birth,
As the deliberate choices
In the hands of chance,
I understand.
Come, let us run out to the open,
The grass lands, where we are free
To be what we are and dance, dance
In the breeze, fragrant with flowers
And tell the whole world aloud:
"Yes, now it can be told, just a look it takes,
Love happens in one preternatural moment"


- - -
K.Balachandran writes love poems in three languages,English,Tamil and his mother tongue Malayalam.A fugitive from decades long daily journalism,he is glad to recapture the words with wings.He lives in Thiruvananthapuram,the capital of the original spice country,Kerala,a true blue green paradise.

4/19/11

Penultimate
By Christian C. Chiakulas


Robert sighed, a long heavy sigh, permeated with battles fought, won and lost. His sword, a vibrant, shiny thing encrusted with a ruby of the deepest shade of blood-red this side of a human body, was leaning against the wall in the corner of his room. He dreaded its sight, its subtle reminder of what was to take place tomorrow. Even worse, however, was the sight of the woman sleeping in his bed, and the connotations her presence suggested.


She had been asleep for less than an hour, but already she looked as peaceful and serene as was possible in such an insane world. Her left hand rested on her stomach, just below her exposed breasts (rising and falling so beautifully, they were, pulsating with each breath,) and her right hung out over the bed. Her golden hair hung about her head somewhat erratically, its strands twisting outwards so that her face seemed as a face in a picture of a sun. But she made not a sound, her breathing was steady, and the air flowing through her nostrils flowed with the ease of a quiet river. It was his fault, really. He'd promised her. He'd promised.


There were only a few hours left until the sun rose. He considered waking Natalie up for more sex, but decided against it. She deserved her sleep, deserved the last bit of peace she would ever have in her life. He owed it to her, especially after the lies he'd told.


Now, looking back, he wasn't sure which had been worse, the lies he'd told her, or the truths. I love you, yes, yes I do, I've always loved you, I always will love you, run away with me when this is over, we can be happy together, you are the most beautiful creature on the planet, I will never leave your side again, yes, please, run away with me, run away and we can be happy...


Robert perished the thoughts and fell back down onto the bed. The darkness slowly overtook him as his eyes temporarily atrophied, and dreams began to overtake him, dreams of Natalie, dreams of sex with Natalie, of a life with Natalie, a life where none of this had ever happened, where he could be free and happy with the one he loved, dreams that marked the last bit of peace he would experience in his entire life.


- - -
Christian Charles Chiakulas has been writing since the age of thirteen, drawing influence as much from popular fiction as from literary greats. He grew up outside of Chicago, IL in the suburbs of Oak Park and River Forest.

4/18/11

Swing Back
By Gayle Francis Moffet



The porch swing squeaked, and she thought of Harold. Every fall, the morning after the first frost, he'd gone outside, opened the paint-spattered stepladder, and wrapped burlap sacks around the chains of the swing like Emilie covered the rosebushes in the yard.


"First of spring," he would always say, "and I'll oil up the chains, Thornbush."

"Thornbush," she murmured to herself. She smiled and felt the hollow place in her heart. Ten years a widow, and the memories were almost a pleasant ache through her body, until they reached her heart.


Harold. She missed him like no one else who had passed. 92 and still breathing, she thought. She pushed aside the list of people who had died before her and pressed her toes to the porch again. The swing squeaked.


He'd call her "Thornbush" like other people said "sweetheart." Soft. Warm. A smile at the edges of his mouth. It had irked her at first, early in their relationship, but the smile had worn her down, warmed her up. "It's a compliment," he had promised. "Roses are just the decoration for a good thorn bush."

The swing squeaked.

He'd died of nothing in particular. Emilie had woken up in the middle of the night, gotten a drink of water. When she went back to bed, she had touched his hand on top of the cover. It had been cool, and she had teased him, thinking he was sleeping, reminding him how he always complained of stiff fingers if his hands weren't properly covered in the night. She had turned away from him, never a cuddler, and fallen back to sleep. Early that morning, as she nudged him awake at a quarter to seven, his shoulder had been cold. She'd pressed her hand to it, not understanding that it wasn't the chill of the room, wasn't the chill of some sudden, overnight fever he'd broken in his sleep.



"Old age," the doctor had told her.



"He was 86." She had turned away before he could explain average life spans, genetics, and the simple truth that age sometimes won.



A year later, coming out—finally—from the shock of his death, she had found the coroner's record in the box of papers from the funeral home:



Harold Monahan
86
Death approximately midnight.


He'd been dead when she'd touched his hand, then. Gone for at least an hour. Her husband for fifty years, and she didn’t know his body temperature from death.


The swing squeaked.


Two boys walked down the street. Teenagers in jeans and T-shirts. Emilie heard them curse with the forced casualness of teenagers trying to sound tough. She whistled at them and waved. They waved in return. Those boys were barely out of diapers when Harold was alive. They had wandered over one day, torn at the rosebushes. Emilie had tried to scold them, but Harold had laughed. Two little boys dusted in rose petals. "Get the camera, Thornbush. I'm going to keep them still. Their mothers will love it."



She'd wanted to argue punishment for destruction of private property, the importance of instilling right and wrong. But Harold had already gotten on his arthritic knees, already explained to the boys that they had to sit still because the picture was very important. She had never been able to give him children. She gave him the camera to take the pictures.



The swing squeaked.


"Hi, Mrs. Monahan," one of the boys greeted her. It took her a moment to recall his name, meandering in her head as she was.



"Leon," she replied, and he grimaced. It was a hated, old-fashioned name to him, courtesy of the early passing of his maternal grandfather, but he wouldn't correct her to his middle name. Rosebush vandalism aside, he was a very polite young man.



"Your swing's squeaking, Mrs. Monahan," he said. "I could oil it for you."



She considered the offer, wondered if he was sent over by his mother to make sure she was still alive. It was a gesture of sweetness and neighborly concern no matter the circumstances, and Emilie smiled.



"Thank you," she said, "there's a stepladder in the hall closet."


- - -
Gayle Francis Moffet writes essays, short stories, plays, novels, and poetry. She is currently writing her second novel, which she thinks was supposed to be her first novel. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband, Sean and is still getting used to the weather.

4/17/11

Last Room on the Left
By Brandon Harris


Women are so intricate, with their purses and wristlets. They carry their lives on their shoulders, lip gloss, gum-- you know the essentials. Every now and then you can stick your hand in and grab an EpiPen or tampon. A woman’s purse is no place for a man’s hand. So much shit packed in such a small space, pens, loose change and whoops her wedding ring! She’s married, she never told me so I don’t know. Hope her husband doesn’t go through her purse looking for a piece of gum. Now I feel like a tangible item, being used by an unsatisfied, I’m guessing, housewife. It could be worse. One day she’ll tell me she’s married, I’ll act like my feelings are hurt, but until then we’ll continue to do what we do in the last room on the left.


- - -
My name is Brandon Harris, a Creative Writing student at Concordia University St. Paul.

4/16/11

ABOVE WATER
By Nicole Resnick


Do not say
you love me, or that
your tub is dry.

His porcelain touch
in tears of tomorrow
flushed down.

She hovers over it
holding dry
lungs, filled with
yesterday’s liquor

Choking on this
photo, the smell of
sour cantaloupe and
wet grass

this is what drowning is,
this is your mind caving out
while blue fades
to black, while you
watch him fade away.


- - -
My name is Nicole Resnick. I am a current graduate from CU Boulder and I love writing poems about love and the hurt it can sometimes cause. Each of these poems describes the hurt that love can have on someone and how sometimes the pain that doesn't go away.

4/15/11

Xenia Lois
By Usal Theide


You are my light
My soul.

With you, I am whole.
With you, I am free.

You teach me the meaning of peace.
You are my reason for life.

You are my light
My soul.


- - -
Without my wife in my life, I might never relax.

4/14/11

Truth
By Wendy L. Schmidt


Know the truth,
my love.

This heart overflows,
listen.

A soul speaks,
to yours.


- - -
Wendy Schmidt is a Wisconsin native who has written short stories and poems for the last ten years. She enjoys gardening, animals and writing while her favorite muse, a white cat named Lilly, sits on her lap.

4/13/11

Figments
By Kayla Harrison


figments
I want to feel
The warmth of the circle
formed by his arms
strong and sturdy
safe
holding me as I sleep
peaceful and undisturbed
I want to see him
in the early morning
lying beside me still
still there
always willing to be there
I want to watch his gentle
beautiful face
quiet dreaming eyes
and marvel with wonder
at my good fortune
I want to walk
down lonely streets
crowded halls
his hand in mine
a puzzle piece fit
I want to know him
all there is to know
who he is
who he wants to be
I want to be there
to laugh at his jokes
to make him laugh
to hear the lively
amused tone
his laughter carries
and watch his lips
curl into a slight smile
like he’s figured me out
seen me
and likes what he learned
I want him to be mine
my one and only
I want to be his
his one and only
And I want to hear him say
those three little words
whisper them quietly
declare them loudly
anyway
just so I can finally say them back
and the distances wont seem so
far apart


- - -
Kayla Harrison, 18 years old in Florida.
Searching for something to fill the void of existence, might as well start with the words I can neither say nor ignore.

4/12/11

Distracted
By Kendall Gregory


I can hear you breathing on the other end

The thought of you touching her chest

your fingers run through her hair

kissing her neck

your hands moving all over her body



you're continuing to argue into the phone

I'm too busy picturing her taking your pants off

or maybe you took them off yourself

quickly

with excitement

I'm cringing



Her bedroom is beautiful, just like her

vintage frames hang off moss green walls

I've never seen it with the lights off

does the street light on Whitaker shine through the window and onto the bed



Finally there is silence on the other end

"I didn't hear anything you just said" I admit



I can imagine you with her

in her

God, It's such an intimate experience

I can't imagine letting you touch me now

I don't want to even be near you



You tell me that I deserve to think about this

to picture you with her

"Welcome to my life for the past few months" you say

you've hung up the phone

I hug my knees and wait for morning


- - -
I'm a girl in college. Sometimes it's easier to forget if you write it down.

4/11/11

Untitled
By Kelsey Comes


She ran ahead through the empty parking lot, leaping over the small curb that designated the difference between sidewalk and asphalt, landing on concrete skimmed with sand, and surveying the blackness of the beach in front of her.

“There’s no fence!”

She stood a few feet past the parking lot, letting the sand damp from spray or cold from the chill or maybe both squish in between her toes until it hurt a little. By then, they had caught up with her, and the two pairs walked toward the tides, she and him in front and the other two lagging. They were more distant than they thought. She and him reached the edges of the waves while he told her about his love of astronomy and she ensured that astronomy wasn’t all that Libra horoscope mumbo-jumbo. No, that was astrology. The broad shoulder-pads of his jacket awkwardly bunched around her neck as she reached for the fine, thin layers of her goldenrod dress’s train, gathering them just above her knees and gripping the knot of silk and chiffon firmly in her hand. She did not want the gown that so beautifully flew behind her when she ran and spun and walked, so perfectly hovered above the floor once she took her shoes off, to be spoiled. He told her that reddish star was called “Beetlejuice” and about how Orion’s belt reminded him of his grandmother. She asked why as she gently waded into the water and left him on the dry side of the waves’ cadence. They admired the way the stars were uniquely visible this night.

He had dipped her on the dance floor earlier, taught her to twirl outward from him and then spin back in, how to dance with his hand on her hip and her other in his other. She had never been dipped before. He told her to plant her feet, lean back, trust him and she shrieked in delight as his hand caught the curve of her back. She apologized for her lack of grace, and he bantered that she had surpassed his ability to tutor her in dance any further.

She turned from admiring the sound of the black water in which she stood to see where the other two were. Their silhouette was vaguely discernible up higher on the sand, and she guessed they were probably freezing, but sheltered through some combination of his jacket and her scarf. The sharp wind flushed her cheeks to a rose pink that would have been a romantic complement to her simultaneously green and ingot eyes, if he could have seen them. She agreed as he oded the grandeur of the stars, offering to show her the StarWalk app on his phone that identified the stars as the camera viewfinder sought them out. He stepped closer to the border of sea and land, and she joined him there, leaning over his shoulder to see the phone screen that connected the dots of constellations and labeled stars. Her feet were cold now, out of the water.

Suddenly, a rogue wave assailed their calves. Her skirt was still safely stowed in the knot in her fist, but his left shoe and pant leg bore the brunt of the attack. He jumped back, and would have cursed but remembered who he was with and instead let fly incoherent exclamations. She laughed the laugh of someone sharing a mutually entertaining moment and stepped back to the water, relishing the way warmth paradoxically returned to them as she reentered it.

“Oh now you’re all wet and I feel bad for making you come down here! Just one more minute.”

She looked at her feet in the water. She looked out into the indistinguishable, huge potentiality of the meeting of sky and water. She looked at the white foam on the waves. She looked back at him looking at her looking. For a moment, she looked like she wished he could go back without her, that the other two could go too, and they could all interest each other until she was done gazing at the blackness, exulting in the warmth of the water, the softness of the sand, the consistency, the way she seemed to look.

Instead, her feet went icily, painfully numb as they trudged up the sand back to the car, the other two lagging behind.


- - -
Kelsey prefers words over numbers (Jason Mraz), love over condemnation (Jesus), and warmth over cold (California).

4/10/11

Rosaline
By Cecilia Ryan


Just like any other Saturday morning, Dan found himself spending this one on Rosaline's couch, watching her clean the fish tank and being educated on the care and feeding of tropical fish. If it had been anyone but Rosaline, he would have zoned out a long time ago, but she was so enthusiastic about it that it was hard not to listen to her. This week, the ins and outs of guppy breeding were the topic of the lecture.


Dan chewed thoughtfully on stone-cold toast while this was going on, his thoughts drifting away from baby fish and heading towards the soft curls at Rosaline's neck that had escaped her Serious ponytail. She was nearly finished by now, and starting to get just a little tired – he'd offered, as he did every week, to clean the tank for her, but he was never allowed to. He supposed it was like offering to walk someone else's dog for them.


Finally, the bits and pieces were being packed away, and Rosaline was heading to the utility room to wash out the buckets and clean her hands. She'd come back dressed in something other than one of his shirts, and their Saturday would continue as it always did. Dan settled back into the couch and closed his eyes, the warmth of the day proving to be the perfect sedative. He couldn't see either of them getting much done today.


Behind his eyelids was Rosaline, as she so often was these days. He knew that somewhere along the way, his thoughts towards his best friend had turned in the direction of the decidedly more-than-platonic. He'd never had any luck with women, except this one. And, well, who could blame him for wanting her? She was gorgeous, fun, and easy to get along with. They'd known each other forever, all most.


Her smiles had gone from being something he returned easily to something that made his fingertips tingle and his stomach tighten just a little whenever he earned one. He found himself going out of his way to make her laugh, and instead of laughing with her, he just watched and took her in. Last week, they'd spent their Saturday – 'their' day now, when they couldn't spend almost all their time together – at the beach, and at the time he might have been joking when he'd called her a mermaid, but the idea suited her well. She'd probably love to live in the ocean with all of the fish there.


And of course, she'd be perfect. The envy of all the other mermaids, with the prettiest tail, and hair that didn't seem to mind salt water. Dan smiled wistfully to himself, the only problem with the image being that he'd still be stuck on land, and he'd miss her too much if that happened.


A roughly Rosaline-shaped figure decided on that moment to perch itself in his lap, breaking the fantasy in favour of a much more real but definitely more complicated reality. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, reaching up to pull the tie out of her hair to make it fall in the waves he was more used to seeing. There was no thought involved in stroking her hair just a few times, and she seemed to think nothing of it. Instead, she shifted to lean against him and rested her head on his chest.


“Not in the mood to do much today?” She looked up at him with huge, pretty eyes. He couldn't help but smile just a little more broadly at that – which helped to stifle the impulse to lean down and kiss her, at least.


“If you're happy just sitting here, I'm happy to let you,” he traced a gentle circle over her shoulder with a fingertip. The skin was soft, and from this close he could smell floral shampoo, light perfume, and the faintest scent of coconut, probably from one of the mysterious things that women used and men didn't. She was hardly any weight at all, despite all of it resting on him at the moment. He remembered fixing a bracelet around her wrist once and marvelling at how delicate it was. It was so easy to care for this woman, who always looked like she was going to break in a good breeze, but never did even when she got a hard knock.


“Hmm,” she agreed, “you're comfy.” A small, delicate nose poked Dan in the shoulder when Rosaline settled herself comfortably, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. If she was happy, he was, and for the moment that was all he wanted.


- - -
Cecilia Ryan produces such volumes of work that some of it must be all right. She's fond of the 'monkeys at typewriters' school of literary thought.

4/9/11

To Hide
By Alex Ulman

How does it feel?

That is the question

after all.  Like a drop

of rain on its descent

to the world of man.  In the beginning

I could look out over everything.

Figuratively speaking.

I’m about to explode but

that will have to wait.

For the director’s cut.  Exposed.

These words are all I have left

It’s too late.  I’ve made up

my mind.  It’s now.

It’s never.  The plethora of drops

that surround me reveal similar intentions.

We began our journeys

in roughly the same place.  The wind

has pushed us apart.  They remind me we aren’t

the only ones.  I’m not

the only one.

But you are my-

motivation and I invite the challenge

and the warm embrace that is the end to my means.

Each day I’ll scratch

my feelings and stuff them

into a bottle destined to reach you.

The things I ponder

when I’m alone.  Without you.

Tiny hands, broken crayons, empty cans. I wonder

when I wonder.  Where

we’re going.

I pray it isn’t too much further.

My feet hurt from running.

The scars on your knuckles, remembrance

of memories I wish you didn’t remember but am inspired you chose

not to-

forget.

I wonder if those cuts are healed. I wonder

how long the doctors will determine

they will remain

in remission.

I wonder if when they resurface, if it will have been my doing.

No.

I won’t

let that happen.

If the scars start to itch

                I will soothe them

If the skin starts to burn

                I will calm it

If your heart starts to question

                I will answer it.

I’d hate to say “goodbye”

to all the metaphors and lies

that have found me here with you.

I’ve landed in this strange new place.

Straight from pages to memory.

- - -

I’m a student at Marquette University.  I enjoy playing tennis and guitar.  The emotional poem from March 10^th of dailylove.net was inspiration for this poem.

4/8/11

My Love For You
By Sadie Clarke


November 2009
Explaining my relationship with you is like explaining how the winter makes me feel, and how bad I REALLY long for summer. Explaining my relationship with you is like explaining my true passion for writing.

You are like the calm before the storm.



December 2009

You know me better than I know myself, which is so annoying. And then I feel like you don’t get me at all, but then I feel like you do, and I have no other choice but to let you. There is never any moments when I am embarrassed for you, like I get embarrassed for every other person.

You are up to my high standards.

But I can’t read you, sometimes I think, you think I can, and it scares the crap out of you, but just so you know, I can’t. I wish I could, but then maybe you would be so much less interesting,

or maybe you will break my heart harder than you already do.



January 2010

I think we are soul mates, but sometimes I don’t feel the passion. Maybe I like the idea of us, more than I like us. I just long for us to be soul mates.

No one thinks you are as great as I say you are, but I cannot get over you. Ever. And it’s not like I picture you touching other girls and get mad, it’s like I picture you talking to them the way you talk to me, and the feeling I get is weird. Not jealous weird, although you make me more jealous than I have ever felt in my life, but weird, like my stomach hurts, or I am too uncomfortable to talk, or when I get so frustrated I cry.

You do all these things to me. I don’t know if that is good or bad.


You are just so at ease and I am always high strung, always high maintenance and always needing to talk, you can hold my hand and lay in silence, you can kiss me, but I just want to smile, because I love you.



February 2010

I feel like I don’t know, the more we don’t talk the harder I feel it. I feel like maybe you are scared to commit to me, or maybe, scared that people will think you are weak, or maybe you don’t trust me, or maybe, just maybe, you don’t want me at all, but I think you do.


I feel like I don’t know you, when we are alone, it’s just like were trying, but at the same time I am normally always scared of trying, but with you I want to keep trying everyday.



March 2010

I swear that if you asked me to marry you and move to be with you, right now, I think I would say yes, and it would be hard and maybe a little awkward at first, but I would try, and I would show you how much I love you. It’s weird. The fortuneteller said you were my soul mate, did I let that get to my head? Or are we soul mates, just not right now, or did the army mess with your head.

These are the things I think about when I think about you.


I could write a book on how I feel for you, and about us, and how much I want to be with you. I feel crazy almost, but I can’t help it. I miss you so much, I just want to squeeze you so hard.


You came to visit. You surprised me by staying with my every night. Even alone with you I never feel pressure and I never feel weird. You call me out when I get nervous, which I do a lot with you. I just wait for you and then I’m yours. It is so annoying; I don’t know how I could be more confused after this. You stayed every night in my bed, you held me, in the morning, you laughed with me and smiled with me.


I feel like you are my first crush. Maybe you are.



April 2010

You are the only guy who makes me nervous, the only one. You’re the only one who I analyze over and over again; to make sure what I said made sense. It isn’t easy with you, but then again, it is so easy. I have never experienced this feeling of tenseness, but then I haven’t ever felt so at ease. You make me nervous but then you make me calm.


I always said I would move out there or marry you on the spot, the fact that I’m considering it…is really strange. For you, only you. And then not to mention the reason why I’m considering “no,” is because I don’t think you are sure. Call me now, say, “I love you times one hundred, please be my girlfriend.” I will meet your parents now. Right now. And I will do my best to charm them, for you.

Make things easier. Tell me it was always me.



May 2010

So I have been sitting here all day thinking about it, thinking about you. And what would happen if I waited. If I should wait for you even though you are leaving, if I should go with the flow and stop over analyzing everything you say or mainly don’t say.

But I figured it out. I did. I have put everything into this, everything, I have tried so hard, and if you stop, if you decide that you don’t want to do this and I let you go and I make myself get over you, then I will be happy. Maybe not right off, but eventually I will be. And I will not regret ANYTHING, I will not think about the things I said or could have said differently like I do with everyone else, and every past relationship. Because “I never told you,” does not apply, I DID. I told you everything I needed to say a million times and I know you know that. So I win, in any situation even if you make me look like a damned fool. I will come out on top. I just know it. So I will go with it, I will stop over analyzing. I will not care, but I will. I will go with you wanting to wait. And I will try to be happy about it. And in the end if I get screwed over, I win. In the end, in the very end, I will still be the winner. And I will take it all. And you, and you, will have to live with regrets. Which I hope you don’t, I hope we end up together, and I’m not saying that I don’t ever want you to be happy, but I am just saying I will have no regrets when it comes to you.



June 2010

Sometimes you are a breath of fresh air, normally, but when I’m not with you, you are holding me down. And its hard fighting for something alone, I think you threw your hands up, I think you gave up.


But its like the butterfly effect, like one flutter and everything changes. That’s what it is like with people. People come in and out of your life, sometimes they hurt you, really, really bad, and sometimes you hurt them, sometimes they stay for a long time, or only a little, but they all change you, everyone you meet makes you, who you are in a way. So thank you, thank you a lot, you did change me.



July 2010

So I will tell myself that my time with you was great and I will not regret it. I don’t look like an idiot. Maybe to the outside world. But not between you and I. Thanks for teaching me how to love again and open myself up again. And I will continue to do so, but not with you. Your world can change so fast, things that you were so sure of can vanish and I know that all good things come to an end, but so do bad things. And sometimes, sometimes, good things fall apart so great things can come together.


- - -
My name is Sadie Clarke, I am in college for journalism. I was born in Hawaii and I have a dog named Mowgli.

4/7/11

Let the Clock Run Dry (monosyllabic)
By Sarah Isaac


Thin lips part & soft words leave your mouth in a hush. Warm breath finds my neck as you speak & light chills run up my back. We lay in bed side by side but sleep does not find us. The clock ticks & tocks while the winks melt & turn to days but still I lay close to you. Thick roots twine us tight to our new home as the dark cloak of night turns to the fresh sun & new warmth paints us clean. You are a long map I have made known & I am safe with your hand in mine. The stars hear no lies, just our past & through a hole in the wall we see the leaves fall & hit the ground. We watch as the red sky turns to black & snow drops from clouds. You are my light & we have the shine, no need for talk. A blind white world is washed out by big drops that hit the hard ground & make way for buds to sprout. The springs of our home have less bounce & yet we stay, a life all our own. All I need is you & your lush kiss. The lost world cries out for help but all we can do is watch through the wall, we are ripe with age now. The grey sky turns to blue & the new sprouts paint the hills with fresh greens, pinks & golds. Birds call for us from trees but our wings are warped & our feet gone, we are one great mess from two. Moss clings from limbs & falls to the floor & still the bold sun stands proud in the clouds. The world twists & the moon hangs in sight with the old stars, they have been here for all of time. You & I have left them in a hill to float forth on a wave, we seek the land of love. The woods are full of life now, the tall trees are in bloom & the youth run through the blades of grass. The late sun is bright, rays of light shine on your face & smooth my skin. Your eyes shock my soul jump starts my heart, I have lain next to you for all my life. Then trees lose leaves & the sun gets cold while nights get long. The birds are quiet & the wind is a gust, the sky is red once more. The folds of our skin are bland with peace & our forms have run in sync, we are fused. I have seen your hair grow & the crest add to your charm. No need to guess the weight of my heart, you have held it through all these years.


- - -
By way of introduction, I am a young & ambitious independent poet/writer. I have poetry published in a local newsletter & I am currently in the process of creating a personal ‘Zine’.

4/6/11

The Butterfly Effect
by Jacob Kreutzer


A butterfly in Maine once flapped its wings
and then you found me.
Maybe I should travel to Maine, find that creature
of exquisite beauty and simple purity,
and thank it for the course it decided.
Maybe I should reward it
for the joy it’s caused me
with whatever it is
that butterflies grow old seeking.
Maybe I should praise that mechanism of fate
for letting me come to know you.

Maybe.

Or maybe I should ignore that butterfly
because deep down I understand
that our meeting wasn’t set in motion
years ago by the fragility of a wing, but
by the strength of an invisible hand
that pushed us towards a goal
that we’ve only just begun to realize.


- - -

4/5/11

Tenderness
By Brittany Cravens


tortured.

I’d tear my tired chest,

to grasp the pulsing heart that lies within,

and strangle out it's beating.

I need rest.



you saw me today.



I smiled and you wiped the actress right out of my blood;

my lips don't curve for necessity any longer.

like my shift dress,

you tore away the layers of my false portrayals until I was nothing but the core of my being.



naked.



tears run faster than I ever could,

in my want of the unknown;

away from the fear of what I cannot understand.



weakness

sorrow

fury

passion



this is the reality that rips my skin.



do your lips feel the depth of the unknown?



I think they do.

I think you felt it when they brushed the cuts,

and kissed the tears;

and your body felt it when you pressed against my skin.



you love my soul,

and I don't know who she is.


- - -
My name is Brittany Cravens and I want to understand beauty. I write until my thoughts make sense, or until my eyes drip with exhaustion, and my hand cramps from excessive use. I write because I cannot fly.

4/4/11

You're Going To Regret the Amount Of Effort
By Emily Ahlers


Why do you love me?

You know I’ll be gone come August.

You know nothing is going to stop me.

You know I can’t stay here much longer.

You know leaving you won’t be an issue.

You know this will only end in heartbreak.



Why do you love me?

Please don’t say you’re hopeful.

Please refrain from tears.

Please stop making excuses for me.

Please keep your heart at a distance.



Why do you love me?

Whenever I forget to think before I speak.

Whenever I step away from your embrace.

Whenever I mention life without you.

Whenever I ignore your cries for a response.

Whenever I become a child born of ignorance.



Why do you love me?

So deeply.

So thoughtlessly.

So intently.

So consistently.

So blindly.


- - -
I'm a senior in high school that's moving to New York City come graduation. He's the only thing holding me back.

4/3/11

Our First Dance
By Ashley Shaw and Pat Monteith

HER:
pasta is bubbling on the stove
water sizzling and hissing
mingling with the sighs of simmering sauce
left unattended
the cat sits on the table
whining for our affection
but you pull me close
and we sway
slow dancing in the kitchen
the tiles cool beneath my bare toes
my knees graze your calves
you hum Sinatra and smile down at me
eyes crinkling at the corners
I stare into their shadowed depths and

think of the river
cool breeze on an Autumn night
no stars in the sky as we sit in my car
tangled in the seat belt
my knees squeezing your thighs
a forbidden first kiss
telling you “we can't do this”
as I pull you closer

I pull you closer
twirl my fingers through your hair
the way you've twirled yourself around my heart
lodged between ribs
twined in veins
rooted deeply
resting my head against your chest
I feel your heart beat
remember

your erratic pulse
nervous energy
salesman's smile and
shaky pitch
my legs just barely touching yours
on that hard black futon
unforgiving judging us
as I held your hand
brushing my lips against your finger
saying “we can't do this”
as I pull you closer

I pull you closer
I know I should tell you
“we can't do this right now
the pasta will turn to mush
and the sauce will bubble over
we need to chastise the cat
for sitting on the table”
but instead
I frame your face in my hands
tiptoe into the kiss
and say
“we can do this”

HIM:
water boiling bubbling banging
pasta gasping for air--a companion
sauce in reach
left unattended
a furry thud comes from the table
the cat whines and wins a glance from you
but I pull you close to me
and we sway
slow dancing in the kitchen
distractions disappear--my forehead to yours
hips moving in unison--attached
I hum Sinatra and you smile up at me
I stop abruptly “more?” you ask
I shake my head shyly and

recall the cafeteria
dark and dimly lit corners
no one around but you and I
tangled in our delicate ideas
your hand caressing my face
a forbidden first kiss
whispering to you artificial apologies
as I pull you closer

I pull you closer
envelop my arms around your waist
the way you’ve enveloped your love around my heart
nestled against my aorta
filling each ventricle with warm flames
forever ablaze
your head rests against my chest
my heart flutters in a rush of joy
remember

your smile
my banner translucent
your influx of concern
coming and going
wanting to see that smile again
enjoying the moment
could be the last
it’s not the last
it won’t be the last
I hope we can do this
I know we can do this

“this is it” I say
more confident than ever
still dancing smoothly
cherishing each moment
each movement
you kiss my lips softly
as if it’s the last
but I have no worry
it’s your heart touching mine
breathing with mine only
we then say in harmony
“we can do this”


- - -
Ashley: I am a twenty-two year old graduate of Arcadia University. I now work as an Accounts Payable Administrator. I have many strange phobias (including peanut-butter), but writing is not one of them.
Pat: I am a 19 year-old student studying Accounting at Holy Family University. Despite my math oriented major, I enjoy writing immensely. In fact, I am currently in a band called the Confused Disciples, and I am one of the main writers of the band.

4/2/11

He's Got The Hues
By Sarah Anne Stinnett


At times his floppy brown curls shield the world

From a fierce pierce of his wandering blue gaze.

He brushes them aside to see the swirls

Of paint upon the canvas of his day.

Between blushing cheeks his burgundy lips

Taste all the richness of candied apples,

But hush! Scarlet is always best to kiss.

Such a sneaky color, tough to tackle

Among such an array of hues-he grasps

At Her, trying not to loose sight, and yet

She's gone. She's faded into her one task:

Hoping, wishing He will never forget

How black and white the world can be without

The tender hues that love can bring about.


- - -
Sarah Anne Stinnett is a senior at Berklee College of Music. She spends most of her free time painting, writing, and traveling as a part of her family's music festival business, The Bass Workout. As a performing artist she performed not only as a musician but also as a SLAM poet, tap dancer, and thespian. Sarah aspires to live the life of a Renaissance Woman and dives head-first into whatever comes her way.

4/1/11

SHIVA
By Nicole Resnick


The bricks of my brow
veil my eyes.
Velcro laden chin
kissed by
Peruvian liquor.
Gray eyes
gray body
a peppered home,
the orange shiver of a
new season.

Cellophane walls
nestled in the pad(s)
of Hope.
You are a summer breeze,
a photograph of her.
She is not in this wine, she is in
the calloused fingers that paint this sad song.


- - -
My name is Nicole Resnick. I am a current graduate from CU Boulder and I love writing poems about love and the hurt it can sometimes cause. Each of these poems describes the hurt that love can have on someone and how sometimes the pain that doesn't go away.