Under the influence of inspiration, a fleeting thought enters and exits the mind, soundlessly traveling past due time. The remnants of unborn speech reside here:
When stars collide you and I will align
Under the dark pitter-patter of infinite time.
We'll use the negative space as our magic carpet ride
And redeem lost time for a moment of quixotic pride.
But the Babylon Candle’s light runs low.
Ineffective emotions neither die nor grow.
Let me carry you home, where these dreams will rest.
And sing to your soul a song I confess,
Is the beat of our hearts; sweet on the ears yet hard on the truth
An elephant melody once heard from our youth.
Something about heroes, we’ll dance to the reprise,
And continue living with this interminable disease.
"Why did you put all of my doilies on the mantelpiece?"
"So the cats can't get to them!"
"I don't have any cats."
"There could still be cats in the house."
"Paper cuts are a serious business."
"Maybe we should just stop doing work and watch cat videos."
"I love babies who laugh maniacally."
"There's this video of this guy with a British accent singing pop songs on a banjolele"
"No one asked me if they could change hip-hop."
...I am concerned. I am deeply concerned about my school. These are direct quotes from unnamed sources.
What if... what if we had a rasher of you out there creating video poems? This is a wonderful poem, by a high schooler in Newton, MA, but imagine what you could do... gg
Heart of a Hero
When most children think of the Army they think of red, white, and blue. They think of men and women marching triumphantly through the walls of an enemy, to defeat whatever person is against the US. They think of the USA being the best, with our army strong and forever protecting our county. They are patriotic, and believe that everything is right.
But when I think of the army, I think of a big man sitting at a huge mahogany desk, surrounded by papers which he stamps with red ink. He laughs, and props his feet up and leans back in his giant leather chair and shouts in a heavy voice.
"Whose life shall I ruin next? Whose family shall I tear apart and make suffer for no reason? While I sit here and happily watch them struggle? "
I'm done here. Please let me go
I don't want to listen to you tell me that you understand, you know
...Because the honest lie is you don't
You can tell me you do and try but no matter what you say or do I know the truth
So i'm going now
Leaving this awful crowd
I can't take anymore
I'm walking right through that open door
I never needed to listen for so long
But I guess I was waiting to see if what I was doing was right or wrong
I'm saying good-bye as sincere as I can
But I'm telling you now, you will never see me here again.
Summer on the Farm
by Carley Malloy
I’ve decided that a family farm is a lot like a barbed wire fence; running smooth for a little while, and then running into a twist or barb that slows things down. My last year and a half has been spent working on my grandparents’ farm. Each day has been a new adventure, and I often catch myself looking back and saying, “remember the day…”
I like summer on the farm the most; the weather has warmed so the barn can be left open and I can hear the jingling of chains as the cows turn their heads to look when I come in. Summer on the farm means haying, fencing, cleaning up the winter’s mess, and letting the cows outside to stretch their long legs. Kittens and calves are born and you have the fun of tracking them down every morning to see where their mothers have decided to move them.
We spent much of our time fixing fence, but I was on crutches for a few weeks, which meant there wasn’t much I could do to help. One hot summer day, my grandfather, mom, and two of my cousins were all working down the hill from the barn, next to the road. My grandfather, unlike most farmers, fixes fence with an excavator. It works great; one person holds the fence post up and he pushes it in with the excavator bucket, and two or three others go behind and start stringing wire. Read more »