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Apr 17
poem 2 comments
Treblemaker

What A Strange Dream?

I had a dream I overslept
and forgot to brush my teeth!
I ate a stale frittata,
and a couple bites of beef.
Wore a pink and yellow sock,
forgot my keys my doors unlocked,
and threw a load of laundry in
because I tripped over the bin.
Lugged my book-bag out the door,
put on my shower shoes,
missed the bus by twenty minutes,
so had to bike to school.

Almost hit a squealing pig
(it might have been the owner),
ruined someone else's grass
as I sped around the corner.
Forgot my essay back at home
and lucky me, forgot my phone,
somehow my mother heard me curse
(and yes somehow that's even worse).
Did a presentation
in my shower shoes and pj's,
cheated on a math test 
and got busted (as always).
Was sent down to the office
and the teacher gave me tea...
we talked about her puppy
and Harry Potter three.

Scuttled down to lunch 
Read More
Posted: 04.17.21
Apr 15
poem 0 comments
rosealice

Oh, to be mist

Oh, to be mist on a rainy day, 
to embrace the mountains and drift away,
to curl and float above a lake,
and revel in the rising sun’s wake

and oh, to sweep, in silken waves
through untouched woods and cities paved,
to kiss the treetops, soaring high,
and wreath the shoulders of passersby

and oh, how sweet to simply be,
to set the scene for mystery,
to take a place, once sad and dull,
and make it seem more magical.
Read More
Posted: 04.15.21
Apr 15
poem 1 comment
AvaClaire

Magnolia

Magnolia risen
from mangled bark
pinks delighting
winter dark
yet you come too quick
And missed the flowers 
To only bloom
a couple hours
and in the brown 
Your petals hold
Against spring gusts
surprisingly bold
and among the coming
With a pitiful eye
You came too soon
I watch you die
Read More
Posted: 04.15.21
Apr 14
poem 2 comments
zazu's picture
zazu

Music on the ceiling

The girl couldn't sleep.
Not when there was a party downstairs.
Not when there was music that crept under her closed door and whispered for her to stay awake.
The music seemed to sit at the foot of her bed and watch her as she tried to count her thoughts.
The girl looked at the shadows that came and went across her ceiling. Normally, they frightened her.
However, tonight was different.
Tonight there was a party downstairs, so the shadows on her ceiling seemed to dance.
When she looked up, all the girl could see were dancers that twirled and spun, waved and laughed, illuminated by the spotlight that shone through the crack under her door.
The girl watched as the shadows bowed and curtsied to one another, and then all went around in a circle holding hands.
There seemed to be lots of joy in the way the shadows danced. 
Read More
Posted: 04.14.21
Apr 13
poem 4 comments
fire girl

When I was six I watched The Lion King again

The way I blew out candles 
was like the wind whipping scarves 
then pinching the nose

lifting the smoke like 
baby lions over a waking land.

The dark room would eat the fire 
like princes at a long table 
would engulf the sweets.
I watched the grey birds

ascend the table, 
watched the horses run into waves, hooves barely licking the sand.

The screen looked dirty 
in the bright afternoon light 

the color burned out as the 
little dusty wishes lifted from the couch 

I threw myself into my seat 
careful not to spill my plate of popcorn 
and apples 

I imagined how many birthdays I had left
how many candles I could get to
before I sat empty in my seat 
with no breath to extinguish them.

How many times I could be lifted over 
a world that could love me 

Before I knew my white privilege had given me
Read More
Posted: 04.13.21
Apr 12
poem 2 comments
peytonkaelyn

Everybody's Little Playground

Have you ever imagined growing up to be a star?
Singing, dancing, posing in front of a car?
The cameras flashing everywhere you go.
Being watched as if you were a show. 
Go put on your makeup; it will make you look better.
Why don’t we just go back to sending by letter?
Crying on the floor because people see you as dumb.
Receiving comments that make you feel numb.
You think you will turn out like everyone believes,
But in reality, they are the thieves. 
They tell you to look like this and that,
But really they just want something to look at.
You may see yourself as a star, 
But others don’t see you making it that far. 
You may feel ever so free,
But it turns out that you may never flee. 
This media then takes a wild turn.
The exit says, “No point of return.”
People are calling you names and say you look bad.
You are just focused on if you should wear plaid. 
Read More
Posted: 04.12.21
Apr 12
poem 2 comments challenge: Climate
thegreenone

to think

to think 
it was another day
going to the bay
catching fish
being at the dinner table
with the grandmother, 
the fisherman,
the farmer,
the child,
eating to our hearts' content

to think
it was another day
in 1908,
when we welcomed Chisso Corp
with open arms

in fact,
we invited
your workers
over for fish
but they insisted
at the dinner table,
“oh no! do not burden us like this!”
but they knew that the fish
were not the same

it was because they 
produced fertilizers
with toxic chemicals 
released
into our majestic Minamata

because of you
the Minamata Disease was born, 
a neurological syndrome 
by mercury
causing the brain to be torn 

we soon realized
our fish,
our animals,
our bay,
our people,
were not 
the same

the grandmother, 
Read More
Posted: 04.12.21
Apr 10
poem 1 comment
The Lone Cat

Word trip

I travel in ambiguity
lost in metaphors

running over nouns and loose participles
rushing through commas

dodging question marks
scraping the sides of parentheses

not slowing down for paragraphs
or stopping for periods

skidding on dashes
leaving quotation marks all over

crashing into exclamation points
losing all content at the colon 

colliding into a word block— 
I’m stuck in gerunds

 
Read More
Posted: 04.10.21
Apr 08
nonfiction 1 comment
Yellow Sweater's picture
Yellow Sweater

Highways


It’s a clear day. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And we are driving down the highway. The journey is marked by spastic bursts of conversation and a chunkily categorized landscape. I press my nose to the glass and point. There go the suburbs, the farmlands, the mountains. We are squished between moments, reckoning with a folded horizon.  

A highway is a strip of land, paved over, with bold yellow stripes running down its center. It’s a dead snake. It’s everything it has crushed, everything it has pushed to its periphery. And it’s nothing, a vacuum with the sole purpose of transporting our consciousness from one location to another. A highway is a portal forced to exist in conventional space. It’s a portal stretched thin. 
Read More
Posted: 04.08.21
Apr 07
fiction 2 comments challenge: Photo-Slanting
Penelope

The purple flowers

“I love the light this time of day,” she said to nobody in particular. She loved the way the sunlight bounced off the leaves and made them look like they were glowing. She loved the feeling of warm sunlight on her face as she breathed in the fresh forest air.
The sound of dirt crunching under her old white Converse gave her comfort. She always thought it was peaceful being out in the woods by herself. Most days she would come out here to think and pick wildflowers. She liked the purple ones in particular, and the smell of them reminded her of honey and happiness. 
As she made her way,  she saw dozens of them and gingerly picked one and gently put it behind her ear. As she did, a brief memory flashed before her of her mother doing the same thing when she first brought her to this place. She remembered her mother saying, as she tucked the flower behind her ear, “‘Flowers are the music from the ground.
Read More
Posted: 04.07.21
Apr 06
poem 4 comments
chelsiastone's picture
chelsiastone

Music

It saved my life.
The one thing you can always count on.
It will be there no matter what,
Waiting for you to pick up the headphones,
And plug them in.
Take a listen to someone else’s life,
Someone else’s struggles.
Have a compassionate heart,
And escape the pain,
Just for a little while,
And get lost in the beat.
Experiment.
All sorts of styles,
All sorts of beats,
All sorts of voices.
You will never run out
Of new choices.
You can take music anywhere with you,
And listen
To the immaculate voices,
Giving their all,
Because just like music saved me,
It saves them as well.
Read More
Posted: 04.06.21
Apr 06
fiction 2 comments
Spoopy_Mouse's picture
Spoopy_Mouse

Dried Flowers

    Jon walked home from the grocery store, the brown paper bag heavy in his frail hands. He hardly went out anymore. When he did he studied the empty houses on his street, a ghost of the friendly neighborhood he had known as a young man.

    Jon put the cucumber in the fridge and wondered if it too would grow rotten with neglect. He settled into his recliner and turned on the tv. A game show, mute because the sound made his head hurt. A family was jumping around, hugging each other, they must have won something.
Read More
Posted: 04.06.21
Apr 04
poem 5 comments
TreePupWriter

tupperware poetry

The back of my mind is a freezer
you never know what you'll stumble upon--
cake left from the perfect birthday, frozen dumplings for nights when
cooking feels like drowning

it's fun, if you're in the mood
pluck out three things and
find their meaning,
try for a meal

I try for poems,
mix-and-match with moments and metaphors,
frozen peas and leftover fish,
taking inventory in spiral-bound notebooks

do words ever expire? do feelings grow stale?

poems have no ingredient lists
they come from everywhere
Read More
Posted: 04.04.21
Apr 03
poem 6 comments
amaryllis

Apple skin

I wish for apple skin sunsets for you,
and may the fairies bless you with blueberry stars,
a bruised hue of battered pride and midnight.

Lined with lace, the conjurings of our tastebuds 
and cool sink water on fingertips as I write.

I've never been good at stitching, but I take the tiny
hotel kits and sew red buttons onto my desk
the two extras that came with the new coat Grandma
bought me last Chinese New Years.

My hair is tangled into forget me knots
Was I supposed to remember, or were they?
The flowers are just pretty now, if we both forgot anyway.

Ergo, we fancy ourselves philosophers as the bathtub drains
and consider how we know we're sentient, if knowing is enough.

I can feel the tears on my cheeks, see God
pinching a pipette to drop it hastily on my cheek
while my eyelashes flicked closed for a century, a second.
Read More
Posted: 04.03.21
Apr 02
essay 0 comments challenge: Weather
lvaughan's picture
lvaughan

Hay time

“How does the weather look for this week?” I ask my dad early Tuesday morning. “Sunny and beautiful,” he replies. In other words, that means perfect weather for haying. “What are you going to mow?” my mom asks. “Everything that is standing!” my dad says with a laugh. That can only mean one thing, we have to unload the two wagons that are parked up in the shed. Because if he says he is going to mow everything standing, that means he is going to mow as much as he can before it is time for milking. I shouldn’t be complaining, it's good to get the hay in now so we have plenty for the winter. Also, we don’t want a repeat of what happened last week. But still, around 280 bales is a lot to unload this early in the morning.
Read More
Posted: 04.02.21
Mar 31
poem 0 comments
Zorro

Sealed for delivery

I step through the door
into the dark of the night's chill.
My feet crunch when they meet
the soft gravel of the driveway.

As I walk, my fingers trace
the edges of the envelope I hold
in my right hand.
The wind swirls quietly through my hair.

Out of curiosity, I let my eyes
climb the treetops to the darkened sky,
where a smattering of shining stars
are misted, pricking through the navy blue canvas.

The blinking red light of a plane
throbs as it inches across the sky
closing in on its destination.
An owl hoots from somewhere deep in the woods.

My feet hit pavement and
I've suddenly reached
the end of the driveway.
The stars shine bright enought to illuminate the yellow lines.

I cross in four strides, 
and walk to the mailbox
where I slip my envelope inside,
sealed for delivery.

As I pop the red flag up,
Read More
Posted: 03.31.21
Mar 31
poem 0 comments
LunaMoonBox's picture
LunaMoonBox

My future

The gentle breeze of the sea kisses my cheeks in a red glow.
My body is heavy, the weight
Of the world pulling me down.
I can hear it all, the birds in their morning call
And the wolves who howl, their cries to the moon 
Too far to be heard.

It all feels so real, yet I know that this is 
All in my head, pounding thoughts like the
Rattles of a railway station. 
I must be dreaming, be it day or night, I can’t
Snap out of it.
It's such a weird feeling, to know I’m different. 

My mind is my whole world, where the waters 
Are warm to the touch and where ice cream
Never melts. Where pancakes are served
On Saturdays, where the smell of lilacs is ever stronger.

Sometimes, I wish to rid of my mind, to act like 
My peers. It's self-defense in a way, hiding who 
I truly am while riding in someone else's shadow.
I hide myself for years, through my high school years,
Read More
Posted: 03.31.21
Mar 30
poem 1 comment
HOFMHIH's picture
HOFMHIH

I am from

I am from the cold of the true north to the warmth of the land of the free. From the Ottoman Empire to the Egyptian Pharaohs. 

I am from the beautiful sights and sounds from my balcony. The sound of rustling leaves from deer to the wake-up call from the birds, to the squirrels fighting. 

I am from the long, long hikes on sizzling summer days to the frosty winter nights wrapped around in the heaviest blanket.

I am from wearing shorts and sandals over at the Mediterranean to wearing two coats, snowpants, winter boots, a scarf, hat, and mittens in the cold, freezing winters of Vermont.

I am from the beautiful foliage and snow on the trees in the “Green Mountains” to the dead trees over in the Sahara.
 
I am from the days to weeks to months that I would travel to Egypt to the days, weeks, and months of where I only could travel around my home.
Read More
Posted: 03.30.21
Mar 28
poem 1 comment challenge: Assumptions
Geri K.

Assumptions

"She's so polite" 
"Very studious." 
"Doesn't get into trouble." 
"Kinda boring." 
"She will tell us anything." 
"She won't change a thing." 

But do they know: 
That I laugh so hard that I tumble to the floor? 
That I want to play the electric guitar? 
That I long to be in love? 
That I screamed at my parents, stormed off to my room, and sulked to the sad sounds of Chris Cornell? 
That Despicable Me 3 made me cry?
That I thought of what it's like to die? 
That I have conversations with characters I don't even know? 
That I've worn the same frames since I was 8? 

No. 
They don't know.
Read More
Posted: 03.28.21
Mar 28
poem 0 comments
ckodama24

Dreaming

Running through fields of flowers
feet pressed into cool blades of grass 
smelling the buds and blades
of flowers made of rays belonging to the sun

Opening my eyes to a blinding light
waking up to reality
thinking without meaning
living without purpose

Taking a drink of water
the liquid running down my throat
a sign of relief as it alleviates briefly
feelings of thirst for something not real

My dreams and wishes
crumbling like pressed flowers
torn just as easily
as the fragile wings of a butterfly to a blade

Returning home with spirit screaming
"Let me in, let me be free"
internalizing the spirit and suppressing
until the sky is dark and the stars are out once more

Resting my head on a soft pillow
eyes fluttering close without resistance
thoughts wandering to a better place
to a field filled with flowers made of rays belonging to the sun  
Read More
Posted: 03.28.21
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