Short Poems
Drama Queen
By: Amanda Maude Miner
I ask about a procedure,
And you say, with a cold demeanor,
“We’ve told you this before…”
Proving you’ll be queen forevermore.
Your petty attacks are vile,
Nothing short of juvenile.
You point out mistakes with glee
To satisfy your self-fulfilling prophecy.
Your ego is large and delicate.
It’s best to follow etiquette,
And not make a fuss,
Or be thrown under the bus.
I’ve tried to defend myself,
Only to be cut off and put on a shelf.
I hoped to be your ally and friend,
Only to be disappointed in the end.
It’s impossible to idolize
When you cower and criticize,
Traits that have no virtue;
I cannot help but pity you.
Tired
By: Angie Lopez
I’m tired of all the ways
I’ve seized to be me
How all there is left is a little girl
Pretending to be mean and loud
To expand herself to all the corners of the room
Enter all discussion with nothing but pink on her tongue
And leave with the same blue in her eyes
And I wish I was the type of tired that I could chase away while counting sheep
Fly for a bit and land on a warm bed
But
I’m the type of tired that walks with shaking knees
And laughs at their clanking
I’m tired and I’m angry
But I’m too tired to stay angry
And too tired to feel love
And too tired to want to wake up after flying
Because maybe I’d rather go to sleep
pretend that the tired will leave
That the love isn’t just an excuse
And that the anger will quiet down
Either way
I remain tired
One Nation Under God
By: Brenda Castile-Munoz
I stood on a mountain underneath the Sky
Which gradually opened, revealing an Eye
It looked upon the east, west, north, and South
Then the earth’s lips parted and out of its Mouth
Rose the hands of my ancestors both servant and King
Joined together with one signet Ring
The ocean sprung forth and spoke to my Heart
We are your ancestors who gave you your Start
You are of the earth, the ocean, and Sky
You are of the one, revealing an Eye
The Virtuous One
By: Brenda Castile-Munoz
A kindly man appeared at my window one Night
While others were sleeping, he was within my Sight
He thought my garden green, now a desolate Land
Required the touch of a virtuous Man
Sun dried fruits, and vegetables Harden
Haven’t a place in a maiden’s Garden
Fertilize he would, every blade of Grass
To nourish each flower, he made it his Task
Appointed keeper of that sacred Ground
He unleashed a fountain once held bound
By summer’s drought and a slacking Hand
A mighty water rose, to the fruit it Ran
Up the vines of vitality
Filtering over to every Tree
Flower, vegetable, and Fruit
Rejuvenation started at the Root
My love, my favor, my heart was Won
By a man only known as the virtuous One
Some Days
By: Brian Sutton
Some days, you exist.
Some days, you’re a ghost.
It can’t be helped.
We’re all a bit haunted in a way.
Some days, you’re a ghost.
Your skin shimmers like glass.
We’re all a bit haunted in a way.
Walls mean less when you can pass through.
Your skin shimmers like glass.
You’ve left something behind.
Walls mean less when you can pass through.
Lots of things don’t matter now.
You’ve left something behind.
It can’t be helped.
Lots of things don’t matter now.
Some days, you exist.
Fidelity
By: Brian Sutton
He plays a different tune these days.
The reel starts over and the speakers
quake at the deep bass of a voice
shaped by glaring brass and whiskey
and late nights speaking with both hands
and no words in B flat.
The tape darkens the tone with every listen;
the magnet strip degrades little more.
"I used to play trombone," the song begins.
Midnight Meetings
By: Brooke Peters
Chimes of the grandfather clock call,
I know she’ll find me again tonight.
The light switch flicks
And I know it’s my time.
Hinges squeak and I see the light.
Eyeliner-stained fingertips push away
Pill bottles, lone q-tips, dust mites.
Black flecks stain my silver skin.
She doesn’t mind, she needs me.
I admire her new birthmarks from past meetings.
Streaks of red shade my secret canvas,
My own signature,
Carved into raised skin.
Pressure, pressure, pressure,
Release.
Beads of hot liquid boil before
My brushstrokes turn into waterfalls down her thigh.
Our session ends.
I’m hidden away from the judgement of dawn
Awaiting tomorrow.
Attitude is Everything
By: Constadina Liberides
Waiting around for a sign.
Who knows what life will bring us down the line?
Cryptic shadows or a sunny disposition.
It is up to us to make that decision.
Life does not always go according to plan.
At least that is how the saying goes.
For each soul wants to find purpose.
Instead, life pricks us like a thorn of a rose.
Searching the corridors of our hearts for answers.
Sometimes getting lost mends our fractures.
The unstable pieces of our hearts might shatter one day.
But for right now I am alive today.
Happiness and fulfillment.
Is what I hope life will bring me.
Disappointment, tears, and instability are always a possibility.
For I cannot predict this life of mine.
But with the right attitude I will thrive.
Cookie Dough
By: Dana Drier
Before we made the trip out to Rockford
to bring her home with us,
the breeder would occasionally send photos of her:
a tiny pug, roughly the same size and shape
of a roll of unbaked cookie dough,
right out of the package.
She had a chocolate chip face
and a body like brown sugar
creamed with butter and flour.
And though she hadn’t been spooned out
onto a parchment lined tray
and baked at 350 degrees,
I could tell she was soft and warm.
Tree Like
By: Giana Migilino
I am tree-like in this way,
rooted
grounded
deeply woven
slightly twisted
all-bark-and-no-bite
occasionally sappy
but mostly shady
damaged, yet
strong too.
~
I am tree-like in this way,
bearing fruit which tempt you
to take a piece of me as you please
till I am left with nothing but bare flesh.
Still, at my core I know this to be true
just as trees do so very often
I soon will once again bloom.
I am tree-like in this way,
too.
Mind Games
By: Jada Golden
She hesitates to remove the silk cloth; however,
Within minutes of looking at the white material,
it falls to the floor with a simple tug.
The skin in the reflective mirror does not fit societal standards.
The overpour of the hips in low cut jeans,
The stomach sticks out far more than prenatal stages,
The breasts that no longer lift on their own,
The face that is full of bumps, and valleys,
The hair that dries straight, and the color of dirt.
The mirror that reveals these attributes
Is not to
Blame,
But instead,
The mind within the
Body,
Which is mine.
Soul
By: Jada Golden
We move from body to body,
But our souls replenish.
Our soul is the hardcover,
Staying the same
As time passes.
Our memories are the pages,
Being ripped out by the spine,
Replaced with anew.
Different versions of who we can be
To see what our soul is capable of.
Ode to Ice Cream
By: Makenzie Rehfeldt
Oh, ice cream,
How delectable you are
Rich, sweet, smooth to eat,
And an endless supply of flavors
I never know which to choose
Mint chip, cookie dough?
Too many flavors that put me in a good mood
You cool me down on a hot summer’s day
Like taking a dip in a swimming pool.
My eyes light up when I get a new gallon
As the smell of mint hits my nostrils
I can’t scoop you out fast enough
You are like heaven in a bowl
When there’s no more of you left
I become filled with sadness
Your stay was just too short
But I won’t fret for come tomorrow
I’ll have another one of you in the freezer
So, I’ll sit on the couch, and watch a movie
With a spoon and a bowl of your mouth-watering flavor
Your Worst Nightmare
By: Megan Conrad
The ocean stops.
The moon sways, longing to leave the sky. Then, in an instant, the ocean panics
Using it’s waves to try and help
Pushing you to shore.
Screaming to you,
Keep kicking.
But your body has a different plan.
Your lungs smirk as water fills them.
Your legs refuse to support you,
deciding to pull you closer to the end. Your arms begin prancing defiantly, mocking you. Everyone knows what’s coming.
The ocean stops.
The moon sways, then turns away.
The waves can no longer help.
Self Harm
By: Nathan Yockey
Steady hands run the tattoo needle,
a molten fillet knife,
with its fine tip down my forearm.
A blissful pain, the rattle of the blade
hushes my thoughts, with its bite against my skin.
A tributary of blood runs
around my arm and drips
It’s wiped up, the ink smears
as the needle’s lashes tell my story.
Painting a picture with an assembly of scars,
a collection of colors and shaded darkness
that form something
Space
By: Nolan Thilk
Tonight, I wake to look up at the sky
Remembering how it felt when I was there,
And how it felt to travel anywhere,
Not doubting even once that I could fly.
Sheer happiness as I recall myself
Flying out among planets near and far,
Or gazing into the heart of a star,
Recollections that mean more than all wealth.
Maybe none of it’s real and I was wrong,
And all my memories are only dreams.
That simply isn’t true, though. It can’t be.
I know that space is still calling to me,
Out from the distant depths where I belong.
Nothing is quite exactly what it seems
The Sun
By: Nolan Thilk
I think it might be fun
To fall into the sun.
I’ll leave the world behind
Along with all my cares
And swim in the fiery sea.
I’ll be blinded by the light
That binds together all
Life on Earth, and maybe
Then I’ll be able to
see everything clearly.
I’ll become a part of
Something larger, much
Larger, than myself,
and finally be free.
I’ll find refuge in the yellow
Flames and solace in the
Solar flares. Yes, I think
I’ll leave the Earth and
Fall into the sun, because
I think would be fun.
But if in fact it’s not,
Then it will just be hot.
Past Relics
By: Paul Pope
Tarnished nostalgia
wet grass, crushed cans, late sunsets. Steel strikes flint - exhale.
Banana Bread
By: Zach Ramsdell
She made banana bread with a recipe she keeps in her head,
or else I don’t know where it comes from - some motherly
place, where intuition and recipes are stored. When she tried
it, her smile fell into a frown, and she said that it was dry.
She said that we should throw it away. I’m not sure what
dry banana bread tastes like, but hers tasted like the vanilla
she asked me to buy at the store, and the bananas that we
ignored, and I remember she put a Beatle’s record on the
turntable while she baked, and she had a little bit of flour
in her hair from where she tucked it behind her ears.
I’m not sure what dry banana bread tastes like, but her
banana bread tasted fine to me.
Haiku
By: Zach Ramsdell
Water in the stream
flows with ease around the rock.
Don’t fight the current.
Memory
By: Zach Ramsdell
reaching tenderly to touch a shadow
speaking softly to myself
holding gently onto nothing
kissing sweetly only a memory