Creator
by Julian Schild
Voice of my inner ambition.
single spire, body of plastic, ballpoint tip,
miniature tower, a single arrow
paper its target, words its momentum.
Creator of knowledge, recorder of thoughts.
Actions never undone, only hidden
by those who made mistakes through you,
obscured with paper or ink.
Spear of literature,
cutting your story of inky blood
into the very history of my existence.
Mortality expressed by ink,
life expressed by your work
weaving a legacy of knowledge,
old as the sands of time
a humble tool, complex in its simplicities
an unresting instrument of sagas and legends.
Destroyer and creator of worlds, lands, peoples
your power is unmatched by presidents, dictators, even gods
for your bounds are only that of the imagination.
And when we all die out,
civilizations crumbling into dust,
your legacy still stands,
unbreaking.
Pop!
by Jack Owens
They litter the air with a sound smooth as butter,
yet sharp as a shock, repetition as stutter.
The microwave dings after a minute or two,
overjoyed by the news I let out a “Woohoo!”
The bag opens to reveal this gold haze,
I admit, I like dipping each kernel in mayonnaise,
I don’t feel shame as I reach my hand afar,
as I pop open the lid of that sleek mayo jar.
I imagine each popcorn just like a real person,
running and dodging as my reach my hands towards it,
I waterboard each one in white creamy goop
grinding the masses before they get sent down my chute
I couldn’t be happier as I play popcorn festivities,
ruin the popcorn metropolis with popcorn atrocities.
Yes, I like popcorn in my twisted own way,
because frankly, I just dont give a damn what they say!
Now I Prefer Blue
by Jorja Reed
You told me you like red,
I like red too.
Red reminds me of you.
Not rose red, more of a cherry red.
But not Rainier or Maraschino cherries,
not even tart Balaton cherries.
You remind me of a Sweetheart cherry.
Cherries with deep red skin,
and a hard pit.
You told me you like red –
that makes sense
I liked red too.
Red still reminds me of you.
But now I prefer blue.
Fossils
by Wren Alger
Fossils
that sting, biting with bruising stabs underfoot
out of sight, soot and dust keep them submerged
sunk and scuttled, unseen forgotten wrecks therefore made pointless.
What a relief, seeing as the point – that those fuzzy memories keep fading –
Can remain
Buried under slightly younger fossils.
Lines of a song that echo through empty halls,
reverberate off walls, air turning fuzzy as chords tightly knot
not loosening till the chorus crescendos, blaring sunbeams
that distort and blur like a daydream’s crayon drawing
a crude lime green dinosaur, bones now scattered underground
Buried under fossils that are younger still.
Something else, mostly taking, seldom giving, its hands spin
what’s your name again? Locking faced behind frosted glass
The rest left a mystery, old friends suddenly but easily lost to history
a vault with an open door but too much gold to carry it all out
Buried under scattered gleaming things
Exhibits lovingly curated, left as gifts for me to unearth
soothing silky down that wraps warmly around me like an embrace
petals on the bubbling surface of a spitting sea, currents that pull them down
becoming fossils, layered on forever.
Leaves
by Anonymous
Leaves who breathe before the morning’s rise
leaving us with nothing but goodbyes.
The summer we once had leaves without a trace
and the leaves fall throughout the twilight breeze.
Singing from the wind telling us to fly,
faces in orange light scaring us out.
Air dancing with small makeshift metal chimes
whispering about the season of pie.
Green, yellow and everything orange piled together
layered into mountains of dead and deceased.
Houses covered in fall, wood and tile,
rain carrying memories and empty space.
The yard that grieves is covered in leaves,
most haunted part of fall, scarecrows never fall
Heavy clouds form a wall over the sea
mazes formed from scare and things that crawl.
Rain pouring over trees flying in the breeze.
The river that flows, forming its weave.
when the day turns to eve…
…and the season finally takes its leave.
Photos by Shambhava Srikanth
