Aug 20
iski23's picture


It bugs me
Writing so calm so easy
Math right or wrong no inbetween
Visuals I don't quite understand
But I will learn 
I will try

The number line so simple so complicated
Negative numbers get smaller as you add but are like fractions a bigger number when they are smaller
It's a confusing topic it really is a simple right or wrong 
So straight forward so simple that is what makes it a challenge

I will get there though
Through a never ending line
A geometric twisting turn
The letters that are now involved in math
A table of ratios
Through it all
Through math
Aug 19


the hand i held was his now,
no longer painted in my subtle purple hues. 
Aug 19
Fiona Ella's picture

end of summer boredom

i have a week and a half, 
maybe two,
before school starts. 
tenth grade, 
which means more homework. 
i did my back-to-school shopping today.
i still haven't done my precourse work 
or the essay that i need to write
for the experiment in international living
by september first. 
i know i nee to do them both,
but it's too easy to put it off
and blame my parents for forgetting to remind me. 
and now i'm back in that august frame of mind
where i'm bored of all this doing-nothing, 
ready for something to start up, 
ready to see my friends again,
almost even ready to eat lunch at the same time each day
but i don't want this to ever end, 
i don't want to go back.
not to my reportedly-insane geometry teacher, 
not to the institution
to more stress. 
to homework. 
back to scalding tea in a to-go cup
Aug 18


i like to make
them scared, to
see the hope in
thier eyes bubble
up like my
morning tea. but
just like my cup
theve been
steeped too long. 
Aug 18

What If

What if the Evil Queen was good.

What if good fell and evil stood.

If Red Riding Hood was manipulative,

Who’s to say the wolf wasn’t just miscommunicated.

What if Alice was an ugly brat,

Then don’t blame Mr. Caterpillar for blowing steam out of his hat.

In today is yesterday’s sorrow,

These people might know what we won’t know tomorrow.

I’d trust them,

Except for that fellow in green,

The one with the crocodile,

That boy is mean.

Let’s go to their land,

Make friends in new places,

See all of our childhood favorites with new faces.

Aug 18

Garden Child

Little girl in little overalls,

Carrying a little watering can,

And a little bucket and shovel.

Kneeling in the dirt,

Making little holes in the ground.

Little hands planting little seeds,

In her little patch of dirt in the spring.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Small girl in small dress,

Watching birds fly around.

Picking small flowers,

Planting small seeds,

With her small hands and trowel.

In her small patch of dirt in the summer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Big girl in big cloths,

Picking veggies,

And watching the leaves change color.

Putting the earth to sleep,

In her big patch of dirt in the fall.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Big girl,

To old and it’s to cold to go outside.
Aug 18

Why now?

My phone rings beside me,
I look down,
See the name.
My hands shake,

My throat tightens,
I feel dizzy,
Like I might faint
Or throw up.

After all this time, why now?
Why call four times in one day?
Why can’t you leave me be?

I thought you’d forgotten me.
I was just another friend who you’d hurt
And then pushed away.

I finally made peace with it,
Stopped feeling like I’d failed you,
Moved on.

But now,
All the bad feelings flow back,
I’m scared,
And alone.

Aug 17

The Tomato Hornworm

Fat and plump from tomato leaves.

Inching across on tiny sticky legs.

Stuffing its ungainly body.

Stripping stems bare.

Leaving only shreds.

It dared to show its face.

It was frighteningly ugly.

Not even birds would peck it.

The worm was gargantuan.

Flailing its jaws.

Rearing its horn menacingly.

A not-so-miniature monster.

Sentenced to banishment.

For slicing tomato stems

Enlarging its pudgy temples.
Aug 17
eulusivepurplepanda's picture

A Summer Faded

A summer came and passed by fast. 
Leaving nothing but empty mass. 
In colors of orange and red and gold,
 will mark colors of death as summer foretold. 
Gone away are fire lit nights, 
The sweet sent of midday rain, 
the pretty sights of morning twilights. 

The sweetest flowers once bloomed in your wake, 
and Sunflowers,
now leave not an earthly trace. 
Summer's beauty, you may take,
but you can't sow a field with yellow lace.

They say all stars burn out eventually, 
so is true of summer stars. 
They bloom and flourish right in your hand, 
then disappear to a far off land. 
Demands are made and promises kept,  
will you soon sing again? 

Shall spring never compare to thy lighter brest? 
Will the deers still prance and birds still sing, 
under winter's turbulent test? 
Or must they wait again for you? 
Aug 17

Moving Out

I thought I was good at this.
The whole
"Say goodbye and move on"
I told myself it was routine
and it was exhilarating every time.
I used to hail change as my savior,
because it felt like despite
my stable home
I was still wrapped in a blanket
of turmoil.

I love adventuring.
I love the unfamiliarity.
I crave chaos like it craves me.
There was nothing I loved more
than my muscles twitching with anticipation
just waiting for my next move,
the spontaneity
and the unexpected
that was vast enough to swallow me whole.
I loved that.

Or so I thought.

I was raised in this world
to move like a sprint,
to pounce as if it was my vice.
I was fine with that,
I accepted that and believed it.

Why am I hesitating?
Why are there clothes scattered on my floor,
littered like the bodies of old versions of myself?
Aug 17


Everything has a heartbeat,
when you think about it.

In machinery, it's the gentle thrum
of the parts clicking together like
they should.

I learned this sitting in a slanted car,
hum and buzz surrounding me as
we flipped upside down.

In forests, it's the trees
that rustle back and forth,
the animals scurrying around
like the constant beat of a drum.

I learned this when we played together
in the forest that i catch a glimpse of 
through the window,
while the entire world is tumbling and turning.

In water, it's the constant rocking back and forth,
or bump thumping over
river rocks and flowing fast and ever constant.

I learned this as i sunk into the lake, 
looking up at the surface,
and for a moment, i swear,
i can almost see the stars.

Humans have heartbeats too,
Aug 16
poem 0 comments challenge: Three


only those dark
stars ever see
what i do.
Aug 16


I believe that heaven is the place you go when you die,
but it’s also much more,
like a thing that is constantly on a mind,
and tucked right above or below the surface of a heart. 
Heaven heals to clear the conscious of love and intimacy,
and to cloud the mind away with that thought of an end. 
Trapped and searching is that of a lost soul,
answers lye beneath their meek,
while free is that of those whom weep and have been cried for. 
Heaven is a creation where people are never supposed to judge,
but how does one never judge while they are asleep?
A part of being a believer is that there will always be skeptics,
but heaven knows,
there will always be apologies. 
Aug 15

The Door Creaks

The door creaks on its own,
a breath to push it closed.
A whisper through the phone,
much like yours I suppose,
tells me of horrors far beyond,
the world we want to see,
and those horrors reside deep,
inside of the mind,

Aug 15
LukeTheDuke's picture

All the ideas are taken

All the ideas are taken
and I don’t know what I should write.
Being one inch tall and a giant awakens?
Or maybe the power of flight?

No, it’s been done; I’ve seen it before!
To steal their ideas would be theft.
I’m sitting here with an empty page,
but there are simply no ideas left!

You see, Hollywood knows what it’s doing –
rebooting an old film or just making a sequel.
And if that doesn’t work
‘cause they need some green,
who’s to stop them from making a prequel?

But I don’t want to do that.
I want to be new! To make something fresh and exciting.
If I had been born
a hundred years in the past,
I’d have so many ideas for my writing!

Then my 6-year-old bro says,
“Wouldn’t it be cool – the story of an outer space hen?”
And I look at my page, start writing things down,
realizing what a big fool I have been.
Aug 14

Regret Weighs Heavy in a Pocket

Midas’s greedy eyes
wished for gold.
They settles on a blank canvas
and wished for glittering gold.
He wished so badly
to drip with finery,
drenched to the hollow bone.

When he finally got it,
his touch spread the riches
as if it were a disease,
some beautifully cruel virus.
he overlooked his losses,
discarded the original value
to revel in his newfound fortune.

In the end,
he sat alone
atop his gold throne,
cursed to be a solitaire king.
He drowned in his greed
and he suffered.

I think I made a wrong wish
too many times,
for my name has fallen from your lips
and I sit alone in bed
waiting to reach out
and touch
one last time.
Aug 14
iski23's picture

A song of spring

On Gull Pond I look out and see a mama duck and ducklings
I decide to name them Sam, Suzy, Hudson, etc
Everyday they would go by bigger and bigger
First baby feathers, then sleek glossy feathers, till one day thick shiny adult feathers
As they enter the reeds they peck away at the leaves
Chirping the songs of Spring
Aug 14

Voices of the Shadows

I can hear the choir,
crying in the night,
shouting inaudibly,
barely kept in harmony.
And though their voices ring,
like chiming bells,
and their shrieks,
shatter my heart,
I cover my ears,
and duck my head,
for the raven squawks,
high in the forked tree.
I mustn't listen.
I mustn't see.
I mustn't hear,
the song of Thana,
for I am afraid.
The shadows which,
beseech me to follow,
are but a trick of the light.
I have lost my mind,
yet my soul is intact,
and they have come,
to rip it from me.

O, I have fathomed my grave!
My mind is buried,
and my bones ache.

Come sweet,
come bitter.
Come warm,
come cold.
Come cheery,
come weary.

Take me away!
Aug 14

Wild Blackberries for Early August

There were thorns involved
and so with careful fingers 
the firm, deep purple berries
were pulled off stalks,
held in palms,
and eaten.

It reminded her of birds 
when they delicately land
on thorn bushes.
Tiny toes splayed,
balancing the sharp mountains
in between skin.

Blackberry picking was a slow, methodical process, one that could last hours
if let alone.  

And she was alone;
reaching with night-stained fingers, 
for another jewel 
draping towards the ground,
adding it to the collection of savored
things from summer afternoons.

Cool ponds,
tiny caterpillars,
dirty calloused feet. 

They were simple and achievable 
and are the things she remembers 
20 years from now. 

Blackberry picking 
in early August. 

Aug 14

Manifesto of the Muse

(Response to the challenge Titles: Create a poem using only the titles of books near you. Write it in seven minutes.)



The Mouse with the Question Mark Tail
The Cucumber King
The Lost Track of Time
The Running Dream.

Under the Egg,


counting by 7s,
Mary Oliver’s Devotions