Dec 20
poem 0 comments challenge: Unusual


Sitting right there,
On that picnic bench,
I see,
Two girls
With different faces,
And the same stories
One cried and one smiled,
One got used to it, and one gave up,
The first one was overtaken by anger,
And the second one buried it down with a smile,
And now they meet,
Introduced by a mutual person,
Sitting on a picnic bench,
They stare at each other and hesitate,
The sun and the moon,
Both bright and forever fighting,
They look down at the splintered wood of the picnic bench,
They are hurt, but fight,
They love themselves, but they are lost,
Two lost souls,
Splintered and bruised.
Oct 24
poem 0 comments challenge: Sprout


I cry
I curl up
and time stops
until I'm trapped... 
I want to stop
I want to smile
and hide
but I can't
I want to keep it in
and leave me to be
but I know 
the truth will hurt me
my feelings are too loud
Oct 20
Kittykatruff's picture

Winter Magic

There’s something so magical
about a New England winter.
I don’t know if it’s the way the snow falls,
one night in November,
all at once:
a softy, downy blanket over the rolling hills 
and woods,
Or how
the lakes freeze over 
And are soon covered in the tracks 
of ice-skates,
Or how 
one of those wintry nights, everyone
Is safe and warm in their own houses, yet
watching the same snow fall 

Or perhaps it’s how 
When I step outside one day,
A thousand falling snowflakes
Surround me,
the wind blowing them 
this way and that,
Swirling and spiraling over the landscape
In its glittering winter glory.

At night, the moon softly illuminates
their dance,
and snowflakes streak solid white
against the dark trees
Past the car windows.
I’d always pretend I was in Star Wars
Mar 12

A Modern Master of Denial

You made Science your God,
idolized in golden buildings
and gilded books.
You were called upon to serve;
you burnt the Bible inked in your own hand
in the blinding flames of fear.

You made Science your servant,
you rode upon its strong shoulders,
gorged on its produce,
enslaved it to your all-consuming want and need.
When this chosen Herald brought a message
of distaste,
you dismissed it with a wave of your unhardened hand.

You made Science your Guardian,
swaddled in its calculated folds,
your life was insured by the majesty of medicine.
It monitors your very breath and heartbeat,
yet when when the warning is displayed,
your well-washed ears become deaf to 
even the shrillest siren.

You made Science your companion,
placing your hopes in its ever-growing grasp;
Confided dreams stacked like friendship bracelets
Oct 19
poem 1 comment challenge: Winter/18
Ordinary Owen's picture

Solitary Winter

Swing sets grind to icy halts, and fluffy layers of snow are trampled as my classmates swarm into chaotic crowds, eager to leave December’s chilled embrace.

Friends leave mid-conversation, teachers stop listening to maintain the mob of 11-year-olds.

Insulted that the snow, blanketed with care, has been destroyed, abandoned Winter begins to straighten the ground once more with frigid attention.

Eyes lost in the glistening seas of snowflakes as they slowly climb down from the heavens above, a body stands by the howling wind.

There is a comfort found in frost. A solace found in the cold.

Lone Winter and I find friendship. We do not leave each other mid-conversation, we do not stop listening. Because in the presence of each other we are not alone.

One electric blue jacket stays within this gelid plain of white.
Oct 16
ccdussault's picture

Snow Plow

Digging holes in the snow,
These would be our homes.
We are like an old couple,
Bickering back and forth on who has made the best one.

The cold had made it to our fingertips,
Our red cheeks glowed brighter as the bright flashing light moved closer to us.
A loud roar creeps towards us by the second.
A rush of adrenaline soars through us as we run away.
We are stumbling,
as the snow grabs onto our feet after each step we take.
We feel the strike of cold shoot through our bodies as we go head first into the snow.

Wiping the bitter blizzard away from our faces,
We watch at the last instant,
as our whole afternoon is diminished.

We watch the light fade away,
With sour faces.
As if nothing had happened,
Our whole afternoon had been abolished.

Oct 16

Joyous Winter

White flakes
         Drifted down to the cold ground
                 Covering the dead grass with a fresh sheet of foam
                               Laughter filled the air
                  As small children ran out the door
           All bundled up in their coats, hats, scarves, and gloves
Their boots left little footprints in the fresh snow as they ran

Their joyous laughter         cut threw the muffled cold air
As they caught crisp snowflakes on their tongues

Screams of enjoyment echoed from their mouths
            As they were called back in
                    With rosy pink cheeks and red noses
             Their shivering bodies ran back through the door

For a warm cup of cocoa
The sign

That winter has come
Oh joyous winter  

Oct 09
adowning's picture



Benjamin Edwards

Skis fly

Target seen

Jump into prone

Steady to fire  
Skis fly

Target has a hole

Jump up

And off I go
Skis fly

Shot again

Get back up

Dash off
Skis fly

I’m a blur

Faster faster
My tired eyes cross the line
Oct 09
adowning's picture

Ice Fishing

Ice Fishing

By Ayden Clark

With a jacket like a heater

And a helmet on my head

I turn

through the


crunch crunch crunch

As the wheels break sticks

and I cautiously drive out

onto the lake

Swish Sposh

says slush on the water

Then I park

put my green and black

rod in the holder

And wait

And wait

And wait

Until the drag starts to

Ring Ring Ring

Like a bell

from the fish


The line

I reel

And reel

And reel

And the dark brown with gold


Flops out of the hole



the ice

Splash splash

Flop Flop




Oct 09
adowning's picture

Black Ice

Black ice

By Regis Houlier

Black ice, the villain of


Always incognito

Hiding, Waiting for me. Wanting me

To slip into its trap

Creeping up right under me  

And right when I get near it

When I least expect it

It springs to attack

Shooting me

Across its villainess body


And slamming  

Me to the ground like

A nail

 Laughing at me

With its cold heart

As I limp away

In pain

Oct 09
adowning's picture

Winter and Summer

Winter & Summer

By Lauren Angus
Love catching snowflakes on my glove

Summer’s popsicle  

Both melting as soon as you get them
Love building a snowman

Summer’s sand castle

They don't last long
Love having snowball fights

Summer’s water balloons

You get wet either way  
Love finding icicles

Summer’s flowers

They come every year
Love having snow days

Summer’s vacation

Always outside  


They are almost the same

Just different
Oct 06
kat_writer's picture


Winter, such a bleak time
but in some way magical.
With all of winter's great, fluffy snow
it's a shame that it's dark
when I get home from school.

What is better 
than after a great day with the skis,
than coming home
to hot food and TV?

Winter, when my hands dry up
and my house works to stay warm.
I roll in the snow like a child and wonder
without the snow, what would life be?

This season is such a meaningful time
for all people like me.
And while it is below zero out there,
I appreciate me,
and this massive warm box I call home.

Winter, when we all curl up
like tiny little kittens.
Some people wish to find warmth down south,
While others must stay in this white heaven.

I go outside and watch my breath
float away in the wind,
I cannot believe this will end,
But also want spring to begin
Aug 04

Isn't It Funny

Isn't it funny
How my life has become a movie
A triangle
A classically cheesy melodrama,
That still catches me off guard.
Isn’t it funny
How every time I start to relish,
To bask, 
To wallow in the confusion and the derangement,
I realize that it's a joke.
Isn’t it funny
That I cannot tell people these issues
(although I do, at length.)
For fear of sounding like an overused plot device.
Isn’t it funny
That I am now learning of my apparently bad reputation.
Isn’t it funny
How your mother hates me,
Saying that Im rude and crazy
And swear too much.
Isn’t it funny
How I've become my mother,
(or at least who my mother used to be.)
Isn’t it funny
How I'm now the person I always hated,
The overdramatic, rebellious, love struck, disrespectful, immature, teenage daydream.
Isn’t it funny
How these things seem to happen over night.
Isn’t it funny,
Aug 04

my mind writes apologies

I write apologies on the walls of my mind,
never eloquently,
never for you
because I am the one who should have to remember,
because you are the one who should be allowed to forget.

I don’t have the right words for this one
(or any of them)
so instead I’ll add another angle to my camera’s repertoire,
trying to see full circle with only two eyes.

I’ll walk with a different cadence in my step,
trying to keep your rhythm,
forgetting the grass trampled under my feet.

I’ll keep those two eyes wide,
so I can see the edges of the picture,
so no one gets pricked on the thorns I’d forgotten
grow in my silence and shadows,
in small smiles,
in holding my own hand instead of reaching for yours.
The thorns that tangle in in the words I say, 
but also the words I collect and keep in my pocket.

None of the words in my pocket can change what is done,
Aug 04

There's A Poem In This Lake

theres a poem in this lake
however it may hide
dive deep among it's waters
or simply look up at the sky

dip your fingers in the waters tears
watch the wind shake the trees
smile at the setting sun
and let yourself be free

watch the shadows dance to the breeze
watch the leaves fall
watch the mountains loom
and reach up, strong and tall

theres a poem in this lake
you just have to find it

Aug 03
Yellow Sweater's picture


I slip myself into a pair of stiff jeans. It’s the beginning of the day. I am stiff as well; too stiff for stiff clothes. The air smells like morning, flowery layers blown about in wind. The air is full of elastic brightness. It touches the yellow of my bed with new fresh light, every moment changing; fluid and whole. Everything is soft and slides with ease into the gentle rhythm of day, everything except me. I scrap myself together out of big clunky pieces. I have never felt more human, more stuck in my absurdity. I think about changing my pants, but they match my top. 

Jeans. What a strange construction of fashion, what a perfect emblem of humanity. We rip our hardy work clothes that haven't seen a day of dirt.  We encumber our legs with armour, though we no longer need the protection. We fight a war against peace. It’s convoluted, It’s uncomfortable, turgid, stiff. It’s style. It’s beautiful.  I wear my hypocrisy proudly; my legs encased in denim.   

Aug 03

I Don’t Understand

Page empty
Mind whirling 
Words are plentiful
Yet why can’t I seem
To figure out
What to write?

I don’t understand 
This drought I’m going through
I yearn for a story
To flow from pen to page
I know not what I’m writing
Till I read what is already written
The feeling of my pencil controlling me
Is a feeling I want back
I want to let all my emotions pour 
Into one powerful pool
For the enjoyment  of others

I’d like to call it’s writers block
But deep down I know it’s something more...

I forage 
For water
Bur I’m afraid
There is none to be found...

Aug 03

to the immortal jellyfish

somedays, i wish i were you.
i’m stunned, again and again,
by the way you defy death-
by your ability to sense danger, to sense the
predator slinking closer and closer,
his nose slowly approaching,
his mouth smirking and his claws reaching out,
and then return to
your juvenile state.
by the ability to stick out a tentacle
and grab time by its collar,
to whisper your command in its ear,
to watch as the moments of your life
fall in reverse. in a split second,
the danger has retreated,
your body has shrunk,
your eyes have closed,
and you are once more
the creature that cannot be broken,
that cannot be harmed by the harsh world that
pulls the end of the rope too sharply.
i wonder if you know your own power.
i wonder if you smile as you escape
death time and time again,
as your body molds to the soft ocean floor
and you return to childhood.
Aug 03

Billy Collins

I read a book of your poetry last night,
as the world around me grew dim.
I slowly turned the pages and smiled at the windows
in your words, the way they took me to a room
with vases of flowers, and to a place
where all the versions of myself exist at once.
I saw bits of myself in every stanza,
in every metaphor that draws you in
then carefully sets you back next to a bowl of pears.
I saw my strong self and my fragile self
in your poetry-
I saw the part of me that aches
to write everything, to somehow capture
all the words that are alive, to feel
the solid weight of them in my hand.
Sometimes when I’m writing I feel desperate,
like I’m not moving fast enough,
like all these phrases will drift away
if I don’t lift my hand out fast enough to catch them.
It’s like walking in reverse,
or falling down Alice’s rabbit hole.
The unbreakable darkness that surrounds me,
Aug 03
Yellow Sweater's picture

A Heavy Fish

The fish opened its mouth and swallowed the sea. Its eyes went wide. It didn’t know water could be so heavy. Contained in the fish’s stomach, the sea writhed. It had no room to dance, yet still it thrashed, pushed and pulled by the moon. The fish with the sea in its stomach could no longer swim. It had swallowed the water through which it moved. The fish looked up at the moon, a desperate panic clawing at its scales. Without space, time didn’t make much sense. The fish knew itself because of the sea. It knew it’s own angles and the curves those angles made as it swam, as it danced. Now it was alone with a stomach full of too many things it couldn't possibly understand. It had all the time in the world, but no context; no framework on which reality could be woven, on which reality could be lived.