

POETRY
Spring 2023
“You can't use up creativity. The more you use the more you have.” - Maya Angelou
Einsargen
by Michael Dinga
You’re German now.
Maximum security.
Beneath brick and bone.
The same walls from
meal to meal.
Keeping strong
keeps you present.
Hidden from the sun,
your cell hosts a light.
The Shepherd watches.
​
​
Chosen for the pile,
everyone whispers,
“New clothes, dead denim.”
They were right.
New suit,
a trip to the country.
No windows for cargo.
Long ride.
You close your eyes,
think of home,
the smell of fags
and old Tom.
Punch the clock,
hard time.
Lose yourself.
Piss yourself.
Rust those diamond blue jeans
with the blood from your hands.
You’re a piece of the chain,
another hammer,
another shovel for the ditch.
Shovel, hammer,
an idea.
You make a promise,
your promise makes a partner.
The both of you wait
for a wet day,
for heavy dirt.
​
You bury the weight
of mud onto the chain,
holding it down,
keeping it tense and still.
You strike with your life, all of it.
Everything behind this moment
pushes you forward again and again
until the metal finally snaps.
A loud snap.
Shit,
another sentry from
another ditch.
His eyes, his feet
run toward you with
one hand on his belt and
the other on his gun.
​
He brings the hard hammer.
You grab the old shovel,
the one you can break,
the one you can give
to the guard to fix.
You make the handoff.
Your shovel to the guard
so he steps away and
your savior’s hammer to you.
You panic, you run,
you leave everything with weight
behind.
Your hammer, your partner.
Your fear is met with
the focus of your assailant.
He gets down on one knee,
one hand holds his arm steady
with one finger on the trigger.
​
BANG
Right at your back.You’re
thrown forward on the ground
and shattered like glass.
Your adrenaline,
your last sense of the world
turns you on your back,
tries to pick you up
only to face his badge and barrel.
Lightning strikes again.
One final blow
sends you promptly
to Hell.
Aimer
Melissa Eggleston
​
It felt like a dream, warm pumpkin lattes, pleated skirts.
C'était comme un rêve, des lattes chaudes à la citrouille, des jupes plissées.
The oldest English literature, and a quill pen like a movie.
La plus ancienne littérature anglaise, et une plume d'oie comme un film.
Seeing your curls bounce and you walk to the front entrance.
Voir vos boucles rebondir et marcher jusqu'à l'entrée principale.
I'll have whatever that stunning lady is having.
J'aurai tout ce que cette superbe dame a.
How to love
Aimer
​
​
Dear Supreme Court Members,
Elizabeth 'L' Mahoney
​
I have been provoked.
The echo of my bitterness
bounces off your walls of justice.
Keep this perverted image of power
and absurd idea of law
away from your courtroom.
When cities are set aflame with resentment
and carnage you are to blame.
This was your choice.
And only then
will you grasp the spirit
of choice.
Sincerely,
An angry woman
Hideaway
Melissa Eggleston
​
What if we hid?
Vanished from society, like vanquished
Servants of the almighty.
We scoured the earth for its precious metals.
Seeked revenge for the hatred the other fools have held to us.
Dissipate and see how long it takes
For others to find our trails of never ending regrets.
What if we hid away where all our neighbors were hiding too
Finding the love that they never felt before the escape.
We are surrounded by northern lights
Bright and luxurious,
Baffling as betrayal.
You were my hideaway for a second.
Now I sit in the throne of lies and despair.
Look Up
Tiarah Swann
​
Look up.
The beautiful scenery
Just you, me,
and earth
The brisk wind
Chilling your bones
The glistening sun beaming
off the snow
How can you miss this?
What could be
if you could see?
Look up.
Insomnia
Emily Shufelt
Inspired by Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman comic book series
​
Midnight.
He comes.
Raven eyes pierce through me,
No light in them but a pinprick,
Like the light from the stars themselves,
Cold with anger.
I don’t know what I did to him.
He chases me every night,
Ebony robes and sand trailing after him.
I can never get away,
Waking up in a cold sweat.
The same for years.
Insomnia, they say.
My anxiety causing issues sleeping, they say.
When I explain, they don’t believe me.
The meds don’t help.
They don’t work on him.
He’s not real, they say.
Just a figment of my imagination.
A nightmare.
It will go away.
But he doesn’t.
He won’t.
The sandman is not a story for kids,
He’s as real as you and I.
Little Bookworm
Avonlea Stiles
​
She may have grown up in Ballston,
but she lived in Narnia and Wonderland
District 12 and The Factions
Idris and Inkheart, the stories in her head
She lived in literature
because words were easier
to digest than paint
peeled from lead-filled walls
stomach empty and angry
begging for anything to fill it
Words were kinder than
broken parents trying their best
but never being enough anyway
Words brought her comfort
peace, family, hope, light
Dreams of domestic bliss
where she too could be Miss Honey
a beautiful vision of hurting people
finding their perfect forever
As she grows she will no longer
crave those books’ distractions
their places to be and hide
She will turn to writing her own tales
of crafted lines riddled with hidden meanings
to introduce anyone who will read them
to the woman the little bookworm formed.
I Pray For Cosmos
Kayla Mattison
​
what has
been lost
seek hope
engraved
believing
you deserve to know your worth
an estrial stork brought forth down
unique astronomical star shine free
my child
i believe
we all
have our
own flames
don’t let
yours fizzle
out
Planet Politics
Kayla Mattison
my head like the Earth
polluted with the toxins of
brain fog causes
mental strain.
​
catastrophically suffocating
is it amnesia, nitrogen dioxide?
coal infused clouds, ashy skies
chemically produced tears.
am i in a double life?
de-realization transformation
no amount of dissociation will
erase contaminated destruction.
rise higher, add fuel to this fire?
stripping away bark, lumber, roots
forest lives and rights
just like they are an average woman.
i guess that is proof Earth really is
a Mother, a protector.
treat her better, treat us better.
one for all, all for one.
Solitude
Melissa Eggleston
​
Your warmth protected me.
Solid foundations,
Of endless romance,
Endless satisfaction.
Sensations, hard to handle.
Cold february, warm april.
Sentimental moments of afterglows so small.
I know the merriment will end
In minutes time,
Seconds flat.
I’m rushed with emotions unlike any human can handle.
Solitude confines me in its cold taste.
Lonely march, jealousy june.
Solitude loves my wrath.
​
​
The Composer
Emily Shufelt
​
The alienated artist
Sits behind his piano
With his fingers dangling over the keys,
Heavy with creativity.
Music and lyrics playing in his head,
Just begging to be written.
He begins to compose,
Frantically playing and scribbling,
Creating a hurricane,
Blowing pages around his shabby apartment
Until they come together as a finished score before him.
Only he knows the world it contains.
Now he has to share it with the world he knows.
Where Do I Fit In?
Alisia Renteria
​
They say home is where you'll always feel welcome
But how come I feel like a stranger walking through those front doors
The unknown of where I belong
Where do I fit in
A home is a box filled with memories
But mine is filled with ones I'm not a part of
Moments in my family history that I wasn't there
Where do I fit in
They say THIS is who you ARE
But how can that be when the things that shaped YOU
Happened when I was sent so far
Where do I fit in
My phantom self always on the sidelines
Family gatherings I’m included in through facetime
Family portraits I'm not a part of, I ask myself
Where do I fit in
My phantom self always on the sidelines
Family gatherings I’m included in through Facetime
Family portraits I'm not a part of, I ask myself
Where do I fit in
Bleach Beach
Mad Baker
​
opening weekend. sky clearer than
the water your kids
splish, splash into each others eyes
jump, dive from the docks
gargle underwater as mermaids or
gulp, swallow between giggles between
Gasp. chemical burns airways shut
eyes searching, pleading, but
how could you help
with your house on the shoreline bleeding
spring cleaning into
your children’s summer screams?
​
A Child's Hiding Place
Mad Baker
​
Small rotten tooth tied onto a string,
Glass pearl necklace, plastic diamond ring,
Fuzzy pink diary with all pages ripped out,
Handful of rose seeds that never got to sprout,
Booklet of church hymns you pretended to sing,
Matted teddy bear you always would bring,
Report cards infested with the hideous sixth letter,
Echos of promises that they would get better,
Blue plastic egg tied up with a bow,
Womb for the dead mouse with nowhere to go,
Painted picture of a black ocean’s white shore,
And a child that drowned with them under the floor.
Abandoned
Zoey Beaver
​
The creak of the door
as you open your demise.
Melted walls now cracked.
Staring straight towards the abyss,
you call out.
The echoing of your voice bounces
off the walls, susurrate voices return.
Opening the door to your left,
a sense of uncertainty entraps your lungs.
You smell the rotting beds as you walk,
tasting the granular air.
It wasn’t the living calling out
but the decomposing cadaver
left out to be forgotten.
Conundumb
Kayla Mattison
​
Take it or leave it, heinous men
Are pests like weeds that don’t
Know when to keep a lie
For example “I didn’t do that” to
Our faces, no I guess we are the whores
Death of a Baby Bird
Mad Baker
​
Accidental
tragedy, persistent
suicidality, homicidal
calamity, or undiscussed
possibility? Supposedly,
each bystander individually
perceived the fledgling’s
landing or descent or
departing activity
with meticulous
accuracy. Contradictory
allegations impede upon
my investigation into dissected
motivations and eventual
hypotheses. Disagreements on
actions seen and
contradicting auditory
evidence proves ultimately
an utter lack of
understanding
at the scene. Blinded
by the sun’s reflection, desperate
act of preservation, adolescent
apprehension, or
​
dared to prove he had a spine,
the child fell and promptly died.
Ennio (Ode to Ennio Morricone)
Michael Dinga
​
Sixty seconds to what?
I’m afraid Deborah’s theme has no end
for the ugly and unforgiven
She lived in amber skin
with autumn eyes like
vespers over flaming hills
before you sold her mask
for a fistful of ecstasy and
chained her in Red Rock
for a few dollars more