By Ella Green
How did I get here?
I stand encased in the still, sleepy forest,
A grand glade of glory,
With green foliage fans above my head
And the dark, inky stencil silhouettes of trees before me.
The ground beneath my feet
Vibrates low and dull
With each heartbeat,
And the roots draw their stretched out selves
Into a fetal curl for serene sleep.
The flowers bow down their heads
And kiss the sun goodnight from their soil beds.
The world winds down,
But I am wide awake,
My once sprinting self
Now stuck here
In this paradisiacal place.
My mouth goes agape—
Not in a yawn,
But in absolute awe
Of the speckled dish of stars
That I look up to see,
The diurnal action of the day
Now shifting to nocturnal play
Where the sun slips through the envelope of sky
And the moon comes out to stay for a while.
I lie down
On the soft bed of earth
And my bones sink into its grassy comforter.
I whisper to the wildlife,
The world that I rest in for the night.
This is where I decide to stay for a long time,
For many yonks,
Losing myself in the everlasting essence of Heaven on earth.
What brought me here?
Perhaps it was the solitude my soul yearned for,
To be alone for some time,
And so my solivagant self
Came to explore the earth’s pores,
The forest floors,
Whose textured, stiff callouses of flinty stone
And whose bark boned, thick root fingers grow firmer and stronger with each day.
To observe the sticky, waxy sap
That seeps from the tree’s open wounds,
To get down in the dirt on my hands and knees
And look intently
On the embossed, earthy floor,
Stamped by many creature’s pawprints
From a happily traveling brood,
To talk to kind flowers,
To converse with the birds for hours,
To let the trees arms hold me
And the earth’s hands love me.
—How long have I been here?
I don’t know.
I don’t care.
All I know is that every second, every minute, every moment
Has been irresistibly, unforgettably beautiful.
By Clara Weldon
It’s not my fault I don’t have her eyes
Or the lips that you long for in your mind,
My hair a reminder of what can feed
Your fantasies, yet you seem so blind.
As I turn, do you recoil in doubt?
Does my face disappear just like that?
Can't you see what's worth caring about,
Do you see my scars and freckles?
Awareness of what I am lacking,
Echoes through the present, blurring my peace.
Past's loud whispers keep on attacking,
Stomping down my wings, my release.
I wish I looked just like she does,
Would your smile have more glee?
Would you stay longer just because,
My nose was smaller
Would I be your yes and no longer your maybe if I had her sweet and silky voice?
Would I finally be the one and only,
A first, not a second or third choice?
I’m the favorite secret that you treasure,
The favorite unsure decision of yours.
A favorite who's never the first measure,
And a reminder of all the closed doors.
No you listen here—It’s not my fault I don’t have her eyes,
Or the lips you adore without doubt.
But why must I apologize
For being unlike her throughout.
By Riley Cook
Have you ever felt like you were being followed, maybe watched? Yeah, that's normal. Ever since you were born there is this dark terrifying thing that chases you. It follows right at your heels. Sometimes it's tall, and sometimes it's short. It is always there, but not in a comforting manner. No one knows its intentions, but they seem grim. Sometimes it hides, and sometimes it jumps out right in front of you. If you try running you cannot escape. If you try hiding it does not work. Well, sometimes it works, but most of the time, you get trapped with this dark thing. Some people try to forget it, others are haunted by it all the time. Some say it's deadly. Some say it's kind. It has a source, and it could go away, but if it does, it will come back another day. Don't be too frightened, some say it can smell fear. Sometimes it chases other beasts. Some say it can take other forms. But, I am unsure about that. Some say this thing can travel on other beasts. Sometimes these things fight. They never make a noise. If it snuck up on you, you might never know. Some give it a name. Some people call it a shadow.
By Lauren Tyler
It is generally with the arrival of Spring
That the season of plenty
Becomes the eon of too much
Exercises for my intelligence
Make a yo-yo of my patience
My catchphrase for March becomes,
“I quit.”
And my slogan for April,
“It’s the end.”
Small mishaps steal my words
A tragic victim of the ACT
Unfortunate shortcomings wrest me silent
The hours of studying still not enough
My people say,
“It’s just a trivial thing.”
But it isn’t
Not to me
I find myself longing for sunshine
I get the sudden urge for flight
To throw a change of clothes in the car
And take off into the night
To reset my endurance
To realign my conscious
But then Reality slithers into my dream
A viscous, venomous serpent
The alarm signals another day
At the crack of 5 a.m.
