November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

November l 2022

Rebecca Huisman


When A Goodbye Isn’t Sad

By Clara Monahan

A goodbye isn’t sad

When a memory is cold

Or the memory once had

Was never retold

When a goodbye isn’t sad

Long gone was a soul

Before their frail body    

Was dug in a hole

But when a goodbye carries sorrow

Grief, pain, and tears

It’s true that what’s gone

Was loved all its years

But when a goodbye isn’t sad

The memories weren’t had

It was simply a man

A father, not a dad.

This is Where

By Keegan Imami

My heart gallops to you like

a dark horse, my little land,

I penetrate the water of rivers and lakes

like a stone

singing and quivering and bursting song,

Bent into my solid marine madness. 

This is where I should

like to take you: 

Dark riverbeds rise

like a flower from the earth

and nuptial light,

In little canoes pure as wild honey

like oceanic magnolias

gripping thunderbolts

and us

descended and submerged

and unraveled

in the blue majesty

of its decorum,

Vineyards of battered hulls

and meteors,

raspberries and 


I should like to lose

our feet in the pianos

and mountains,

sand and 


Where evergreen forests are born.

Stop Staring, Idiot

By Whitman Halverson

How am I supposed to know my limits when there’s so much more I need to know?

You ask about my scars- I am dappled like the doe

I drag my feet to therapy: “You are your greatest foe” 

I sit and wonder, time again, if I'm really meant to grow

Or if the roaring, foaming, jaws below me

Reach up for me and adore me

From which I’m wrestling glory and its gory 

Aftermath of writhing stories

One on top of the other

Pick and chose

Which life you lose in lieu of the rent being due

You cannot convince me I'll worship in a cubicle

That hiddeously warped and tortured place of flaming crucible

I am not a pheonix or a welded metal ton

You might rise from ashes but I'll burn

Fahrenheit 451

Like the crumbling collection of useless words that I am

I am

Sick. and tired. of self. 

Put me on a shelf, please

Let me be your bejeweled success.

Gild me. Build me

Into something I am not

A success.

I am everything I was wanted to be

And I am so eternally, tumultuously, infernally, perniciously hollow. 

I cannot swallow my smiles, shocked with bile, running the final and last of my miles

I am petering out of gas, facing backwards so I can reach for the past and pretend that the mass of glass stars shattering under the overpass

Isn't there

I don't care

I'm lying. 

And I'm sorry


Rebbeca Huisman

A Puzzle That Doesn’t Fit

By Isabelle Schremp



Comparing is all I can do

Taking pieces of others

Their looks

Their heart

Their wisdom

I try to replace theirs for mine

For I cannot compete with theirs

Scrolling through the never ending cycle

I add to my insecurities like making a grocery list

I have become a puzzle that doesn’t fit

Gloriously Blue

By Paxton Anderson

The sun was shining over the horizon that day

Almost all were out enjoying its glorious display

The young, their parents, the animals too

The sky, they noticed, was gloriously blue

All but one were enjoying that day

Alone, depressed, an old man sat at bay

For he had been told to stay far away

Everyday he sat alone

Inside the most lonesome home

He had been neglected all his life

Day to night all he came to know was strife

It wasn’t his fault he was maimed

Children's fathers made him feel ashamed

For other’s faults he was blamed

The children never saw him to not be frightened

None of them had yet been enlightened

Of disabilities, pain, and suffering

Eyes of the children the mothers had been covering

Then that glorious day

The smallest child slowly wandered away

Steadily losing sight of his mother’s blouse

He walked cautiously toward the man’s house

He knocked on the door with his small fist

The man said to come in so he couldn’t resist

The little boy opened the door with a slight twist

Inside he saw the man and decided to talk

He asked if he wanted to go on a walk

The man explained his condition to the boy

Because of the boys kindness the question did not annoy

The man had a wheelchair to move around

He told the boy to walk while he rolled across the ground

The little boy found that alright so their deal was sound

They made their way to the home of the boy’s mother

All that was seen by everyone wasn’t the boy but the other

The neglected old man had been treated kindly

By the one would have been frightened they thought blindly

The mother of the little boy came running in tears

She hugged him while shedding all her fears

For she had hoped that someone would bring the man back for years

The sun was shining over the horizon that day

All were out enjoying its glorious display

The young, the old, the animals too

All together, they noticed, was no longer going to be new

The Big Apple

By Sophia Taylor

A place of dreams coming to fruition

With desperate teens pursuing their mission.

Where the lights never sleep

And the people weep.

Because where the light cannot reach

Is where predators creep.

Seeking to beseech 

Their target into deep


No matter how many castings you attend

You cannot befriend

A single director.

You’re alone with a horizon full of offices buildings

Full of people fulfilling their billings

Because their dreams are dried up and crusty.

Worn down and dusty.

Their parents can no longer goad them on

To wake up at the crack of dawn

To accomplish a dream far gone.


By Darby Hood

What’s Left Behind

By Sophia Taylor

Does it hurt to die?

As much as it hurts to pry open

A jar of peanut butter. Your favorite.

Or perhaps your favorite was honey butter, 

On a bed of rolls.

Does it hurt more now that you’ve left them behind?

Do you have guilt for taking the short-cut of life?

They think of you fondly, yet wish desperately that

They did more. They want your laughter that lit up the room.

Along with your sadness, and weeping, and blues-

Your wrinkles and grandchildren too. 

But I never knew you, and because you’re gone

How can I tell a story that’s never being drawn?

Where you went, whatever it is, can’t reach the despair

Of your mother when she hangs your stocking, or bakes you a cake

On your birthday. They still celebrate. 

Or maybe they don’t. 

Maybe they push you out of their lives because they hurt. You hurt them.

With your one decision you left them like dirt. Ground, dirty, defenseless, 

Useless. Unless they choose to plant a seed. 

But you were the seed; given in to thorns and weeds.

Yet again I ask, does it hurt to die?

As much as it did when they made you cry.

When all you wanted was to roll up and sigh

A desperate goodbye.

I’ll miss you, whoever you are. I hurt for your family, for your children, for the star

That hangs in heaven mourning the loss of a beautiful creation

Whose story was never finished.


By Almeda Pitts

They called me where I should not follow.

But they were full and I was hollow.

Rolling, now, in light and bright,

Flailing left and fumbling right,

Confusion and calm meet.

My desperation fades as I descend from light and heat.

I’m no longer drawn, I no longer succumb.

My whole body, whole being, is numb. 

Now that they’re nothing I know what they are. 

Too late, I’ve already come too far.

My breaths are deep and filling. 

The wavering seas are slowly stilling.

Water hits the bottom of my lungs.

I am thinking, internally singing, sinking, the song the sirens sung.

Friendship Lament

By Rebecca Huisman

I’m so grateful 

For the things I’ve 

Grown to love and 

fear to lose 

All the people 

I softly cling 

To and fear the  

Brisk emptiness 

Of pale death a

Snow gossamer

Tucking away 

All the time

Friendship feels like 

Fall when leaves drop 

You say Goodbye 

to leave without

Turning back so

Your tears can freeze

Into winter 

Forever now

Till the budding 

of new spring then

Intervades your

Cavernous heart

with Its warm-cold 

Patches like shifting 

Sunlight under 

An oak tree 

Thank you God for 

The people I’m 

Not ready to

Say goodbye

wAcKy dReAmLaNd

By Naya Green

Six Feet Under

By Sydney Downs

I don't remember much

Just the sound

The broken AC

The heavy breathing

And all, all the screaming

Where was I when I awoke?

Was I six feet under?

In a box of oak?

Yes I stopped seeing, breathing

But now I am here and I am screaming!

They took everything!

My sanity

My trust

And finally they took my life

You shut my up when I tried to speak

You did not talk with my 

You talked about me

Talk to me, I´m begging!

I was begging

I was screaming

I was breathing

It's my turn to speak

So hear my voice

And hear my cry

You will not be the reason 

That I give up and die

The Flowers of St. Francis

By David Marsh

Under the sweltering soul of Ebony Isle did stand the manor of Sir Lászlo Barna, a petty figure whose predicament lay upon a theft proffered by an English waif; her eyes undulating symmetrically under a blood moon, and the point at which Barna was to, for accounts of the perplexing nature of these rather jarring memories, dispel himself upon the rose garden that pierced the skin of a mellowing earth. There was a vehicle that at some point, the sky did set and blood and fluids closed his eyes yet springing off the sprightly shore did homes begin to scatter like ashes, a wise ‘how d’ya do?’ settling a pinch, a punch at an English bar, and his pretty movement will burn me till I face the greater fires of hill. (It is at this point that it must be noted that Barna, despite an array of mistresses and a wife he had assumed as optimal but twenty years back, was still completely void of understanding on the subject of human sexuality).

He had three daughters, each a beloved tooth in the mouth of a dragon, yet teeth are said to ripple like flight upon a cohing (couing? cawing?) momentum. Waves are a blank face for a game, dealt out like flies and pebbles (that is how they defined sand some many years back). I’d loved to be a murderer, a plague, a wave, and all of this was thought by thine mind upon twenty years of duration. We, no us - we the people, we the citizens of a manager’s manor, of the manger of the mountain, the many of the mulling and the mulling of the many - a book - charlotte downs [was the] end [of] fairness, [the] ghoul [of the] house, and 1 - 1 - 2 - 3 - 5 ways away from the center of the board is spun a circular object that will thus present the shadow of a merrily subtle being. She was dead. Time will move on.

“In the beginning” is a pertinent phrase to the end, time a phrase to space, Lászlo to the rose garden, and prayer to plowing (but death and money are to be separated until an observer may state otherwise of this meaning). It is a long stride of his manor that occupies his space, and at the beginning may he plow and turn to Lászlo. They’d picked an oak tree for this occasion, but processions were narrow and possessions too grand to defile the land as (such). I am unaware of your game, we of his stature, yet he shall fall through the stone in due time.

In due time. At the beginning of Animal the two escape, at the beginning of Phase they endure, and through a petroleum haze they would wish that they could have done neither of these things. Thus a realization of the waves that painted the manor of Lászlo Barna, his personage, the facade of his imagination and your bitter wisdom shall we dance and cry and swoon upon these crumbling balconies - it is our time until the end of the world, or the beginning, and upon a whale oil wishing well we shall seek that the flower garden shall stand until the turning of St. Francis. 

The Kid That Said Boom

By Riley Cook

“Boom!”, he accidently said. The giant, brown oak in his lush backyard set fire. He ran to get the hose. He ran back and put out the fire. Whew! He barely saved the giant oak. But, there was a giant hole next to the tree where he said boom. He did not know what to do.

Ziggy first said boom when he was 5 years old. He was in his normal public school talking about onomatopoeia words. The room he was in was destroyed by the fire and the blow, but no one was hurt. This is when he learned that he could blow stuff up. This one word for him had a lot of power.

After he put out the fire and covered up the giant hole with a tarp he heard his parents pull up the driveway. He ran up to his house and went in the back door. He saw his parents. He helped them bring in the groceries and get ready for dinner. When dinner was ready Ziggy sat at the table with his parents and with the big shaggy dog under the table. They ate and Ziggy never told his parents about the incident in the backyard. 

Ziggy went to school the next day and hung out with his friends at lunch. A lot of people knew about Ziggy’s special power, and the only people that were not scared of him were his friends. Ziggy felt really nervous that his parents would find the hole in the backyard. Last time he said boom in the backyard was a year ago, and his parents got very mad at him. They made Ziggy fill the hole in the ground all by himself as a punishment. He was just experimenting to see if his power still worked. The reason why Ziggy said boom yesterday was because he got really mad and just wanted to say boom. Now he realized this was not a good choice. 

When Ziggy got off the bus he saw his Mom waiting for him on the front porch of their house. It was at that moment that he knew… he was in big trouble. His Mom asked him all the normal questions about his day, and then she asked, “Did you say boom in the backyard yesterday?” Ziggy did not know what to do. Ziggy just asked his Mom, “Mom, why am I the only person who has to deal with the power of this one word. Why is it me? Why do I have to do something different? Why do I have this power?” Ziggy’s Mom could tell Ziggy was spiraling out of control. She replied with one word, “stop”. Ziggy stopped. “Ziggy”, Ziggy’s Mom said, “I have the power of one word too. I can say stop and people stop. I can say thanks and make someone's day. I can say sorry and repair a relationship. I have the power of one word too”. Ziggy looked at his Mom with a new understanding. Ziggy’s Mom continued, “everyone has the power of one word. This power can be used to restore”. Ziggy started to understand now. He was not the only one with the power of one word.

Koi Fish Bowl

By Joanna Ward

August | 2023
May Part 3 | 2023
May Part 2 | 2023
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