Coloring Book

Coloring Book

The blank pages lying before you

Staring at them, opening the old,

Dusty box of colored pencils

That has been sitting on your nightstand

Since the day you were born

You take the first in hand

You color the beginnings of dismay

Turning all murky and dark

A black shadow, taking over the page

Then, you grab realization

Coloring a golden lining to your dismay

Spreading, lightening your page

Then, you grab lust

Coloring a perfect fuchsia pentagon

Ruling out reason

Then, love comes

With deep red circles

Like cheeks in the depth of winter

Then, envy

A green sea sweeps around the love

Never ceasing, deepening as it goes

Then trust arrives

A blue boat sails the deep envy

Splitting it apart like firewood

Then serenity

Brown, relaxed, earthy

But suddenly, anger

Springs from the calm like

Fresh spring flowers

Attacking the page with blotted orange

But then, happiness

Slowly begins to erase the anger

Your page is full

You place the pencils back in the case

That will remain on your nightstand

Until the day you die

Mothering Poem

Mothering Poem

Why be so uptight, high strong and so fucking demanding
I wanna run away and be free
No rules, live life and get away
Once I have that, I will never come back
Never come back
I am sick of your shit
Why don’t you understand?
Give me freedom and I will show you I can be
I can be smart and make good decisions
Please watch me
Mother,
Your mothering skills are making me not love you
Love you in a way of trust and a free will
Ill show you if u let me
But you just wont let me go
Why mother why
You stand and watch me in pain
Pain, sitting in and doing nothing wrong
The second I get a chance
I will run away
There is going to be nothing you can do
Sitting on the wooden bench wishing I could be like my other friends running around
Wonder why everyone hates me?
Because I have a physco mom that does not let me live life
Once you die I will be happy
You have no idea how much pain you give me
Pain in my heart and soul
I lose everything and everyone I have because you push them away
No life, no nothing
Thank you mom
Enough is enough

Climate Change

Climate Change by Peter Waldor

Because we love one another

and because it is cold

and we are both scared,

and because we walked out

of a cloud, my son and I

hold hands on the ridge

off Vermillion Peak.

Every time we think this is it,

it's just rock form here on up-

one more pink windmill

in the thin-aired wind-

another alpine phlox,

each summer reaching higher-

a curse on my children.

Climate Change by Chloe Kunstler

Because we love one another

and because it is hot,

we find liberation in the little things-

like chocolate muffins from Au Bon Pain and attractive hipsters on the street.

While we both meditate on our boredom between classes,

we stroll down Locust Walk

imprisoned by our daily routine but

free enough to decorate our days with laughter.

Because we love one another

and because it is hot,

we can find peace here

but still dream about home.

Lighter

by Dorianne Laux

Steal something worthless, something small,

every once in a while. A lighter from the counter

at the 7-Eleven. Hold that darkness in your hand.

Look straight into the eyes of the clerk

as you slip it in your pocket, her blue

bruised eyes. Don't justify it. Just take

your change, your cigarettes, and walk

out the door into the snow or hard rain,

sunlight bearing down, like a truck, on your back.

Call it luck when you don't get caught.

Breathe easy as you stand on the corner,

waiting, like everyone else, for the light to change,

following the cop car with your eyes

as it slowly rolls by, ignoring the babies

in their shaded strollers. Don't you want

something for nothing? Haven't you suffered?

Haven't you bean beaten down, condemned

like a tenement, gone to bed hungry, along?

Sit on a stone bend and dig deep for it,

touch your thumb to the greased metal wheel.

Call it a gift from the gods of fire.

Call it your due.

Russian Roulette

by Rachel Epstein

We do this not because we wish to die,

that our body be buried beneath the earth,

for sunlight to never touch our skin.

We do this for the feeling,

the flow of intoxicating energy,

through our blood soaked veins.

To circumvent death,

that would truly be something.

As we turn the barrel over in our hands,

contemplating who will go next.

There is only a small chance that a life will be,

swept away tonight.

Pull the trigger, and pray

that it’s not you.

Bed Time

Bed Time – Nicole Penn

You close your eyes

And play back your day

As if it was your last

Reviewing and judging every word

Every action

You said

You think you were too loud

But those are the bulldozers that are plowing your mind

Shoveling away the brutal parts of your day

The rocks and the gravel

Move to the side

And out of the corner of your eye

You spot a diamond

Amongst the rock

That moment

Where you made eye contact

With him

During the day

Where your stomach

Sank

You may have thought you day was bad

But that diamond just saved your sleepless night

From being

That of a sleepless day

16.

16. by Michael Glück

to let go
the thrift of days

to set down
between fork and knife
the little you have
even that little
to share

two scoops of flour
that day are
more than two

a plate for the absent one

the glass turns
memory

stand the table on its die
it's a door
the stranger crosses the threshold

16. by Oliver Hunt

to forgive

the last dance

to watch

what is forgotten

fall through the cracks

while you remain

alone

the wine

that night

flows smoother

glasses raised

for those remembered

a carpet stained

with history

open the window

a portal

memories flood in

with a breeze

Gracehoper

Gracehoper by Jake LiBassi

Gabriel and I were exploring,
on our own.
Just us and mother nature.
Mother nature had graced our presence
in the form of a grasshopper.
Gabriel was intrigued,
because he had never seen anything of the sort.
His anxiety caused him to attack,
in a friendly manner.
The harmless grasshopper laid crushed
in the infant hands of young Gabriel.
He meant no harm,
he was a gentle giant to now deceased grasshopper.
Gabriel understood what had happened,
and brought mother nature to his chest,
in sorrow.

Gracehoper by Peter Waldor

Gabriel and I collecting

nut shells of beech nuts

when a poor young

grasshopper crossed

our path, Gabriel

tried to touch it

but his baby fingers

were too much

for the beast

and it expired,

its antennae and red eyes

went slack

and the green

sheen turned dull.

Gabriel brought the corpse

to his chest and whispered.

The Beach in August

The day the fat woman

In the bright blue bathing suit

Walked into the water and died,

I thought about the human

Condition. Pieces of old fruit

Came in and were left by the tide

What I thought about the human

Condition was this: old fruit

Comes in and is left, and dries

In the sun. Another fat woman

In a dull green bathing suit

Dives into the water and dies.

The pulmotors glisten. It is noon

We dry and die in the sun

While the seascape arranges old fruit,

Coming in and the tide, glistening

At noon. A woman, moderately stout,

In a nondescript bathing suit,

Swims to a pier. A tall woman

Steps toward the sea. One thinks about the human

Condition. The tide does in and goes out.

My old baby sitter's family had just bought a beach house in Scituate
We drove an hour to get there, blasting beach music the whole time
And I played a song I thought you’d like to see if you’d ask who it was by
Miraculously, we found our way to the shore with the help of a couple maps
I parked the car in front of their house and they pointed us towards the beach
The whole day was spent lounging in the sand
Away from the crowds, away from the city
Away from anything
As the sun set, we sat on the rocks watching the waves collide with rocks below us
The splashes grazing our bare feet
And I realized that all I wanted in life
Was to be a beach bum with you

1

1

By Michael Gluck

(translated from French)

let everything rest

the body

and the body's

tools

let hunger rest

at the rim of the plate

water in the jug

thirst between lips

let your skin rest

beyond its wrinkles

let the sheets hang

on the edges of the book

let

time rest on the chair

wear daylight's clothes

down to threads

1

Let your body sink

and your mind wander

Sit back and become one with the book

Let the pages turn themselves

and the words dissolve

Become that one, the voice inside your head

Reading out the words

Leave all your worries behind

Be invested, become one

One not two but one

Lighter

By Dorianne Laux

"Live a little above morality"

-Ruth Gordon, "Harold and Maude"

Steal something worthless, something small,

every once in a while. A light from the counter

at the 7-eleven. Hold that darkness in your hand.

Look straight into the eyes of the clerk

as you slip in your pocket, her blue

bruised eyes. Don't justify it. Just take

your change, your cigarettes, and walk

out the door into the snow or hard rain,

sunlight bearing down, like a truck, on your back.

Call it luck when you don't get caught.

Breathe easy as you stand on the corner,

waiting, like everyone else, for the light to change,

following the cop car with your eyes

as it slowly rolls by, ignoring the babies

in their shaded strollers. Don't you want

something for nothing? haven't you suffered?

Haven't you been beating down, condemned

like a tenement, gone to bed hungry, alone?

Sit on a stone bench and dig deep for it,

touch your thumb to the greased metal wheel.

Call it a gift from the gods of fire.

Call it your due.

Lighter

What is real life to you?

Lies, Procrastination, Having a good time?

We all get these symptoms

So don't worry.

The homeless

The poor

The weak

The uneducated

The sick

The list goes on.

survive the good times, the laughs, the joy

the emotional rising action towards a great climax

thought as logic, logical thoughs create animosity to the heart.

Life is build on flash,

and not fire.

This is real life,

Live.

Sometimes I think

"Sometimes I think"

My emotions come and in like a bee getting honey
I feel nonchalant to the extreme
Internally in and out
Bizarre and funny
I feel strange when I am in a situation of not knowing
Not knowing incomplete and naked
Why naked?
Because naked, is something, something special
I feel uneasy,
I need something different
I feel the need for more
The need to become again
To relax the muscles and tense your brain
Your brain into a slice or even better slices of pie
Strawberry, apple, blueberry and walnut
Sensation
Of whatever it is
Love, sorrow, and thought
The feeling of feeling and loving
I love to love
I love to hate
I love to be loved
And loving and being loved
Loved is valued and honored
Don’t ignore it
Admire it
And I got it

Whatever This Is

Whatever This Is
by Ellen Doré Watson

I'll scale the steps and cross the smooshed-crab-apple
infested grass, but I refuse to clamber down the bank
unless the river is known for its stones. Useless
distinctions like this I have lately clung to-- or

shall I say lately designed? Indecision is legion here
in the (aging) meat of my years. I've established
that the chaise is not curtseying to the birdseed bin
any more than the rags are cozying up to the pile

of windows, which it turns out are feeling neither
displaced nor blue. But I swear that slug stood up
and made a shadow, which, while miraculous, possibly
even purposeful, is not sufficient to the human evening

any more than sweeping before sleep the dropped needles
from the walk. Just look what's happening to my house--
its skin set right and bright--as I turn to lumber.
Memories almost gone as the tiny clay houses that once

nestled the rock wall, which is to say not gone. Flickering.
Gravity! Get the hell away from me sings a twenty-something,
sings (I pretend) the phlox I didn't deadhand, the buoyant
ground cover, the mess of leaves toast-dry, unruly.

Opening into risk is for yesterday and tomorrow--
the other side of whatever this is, this chain (of my own
making?), which is at least not the splintered ladder
left sprawled and numbing in the wettish grass.

~*~*~*~

Whatever This Is
By Ali Broadstone

I keep having this reoccurring dream where I'm surrounded by
doors in a desert, the sun beating down on me
as I stare at the indigo frame of a particular
gateway. It's difficult to remember who I am, why I

came here in the first place. Wind is gelid and
pierces through my stomach like a lance, and maybe it's now
I realize I've been playing too much Persona 3 today.
This world is of my subconscious, of my restless soul

the very piece of my heart I keep breaking apart
into fragmented memories and personae on the floor where each
one grins, each one keeps whispering contrasting promises to me.
It's this game I can't leave, this truth of life

that keeps haunting my gray matter to the point where
I can't stop seeing tarot cards in everyone's faces, their
faces cracking and shattering and all it will take
is someone to scream out, to throw their fist at

that envisioning visage of theirs. Oh, how human nature makes
me sick! Each night in my bed, I have to
play a contestant of some horrid game show, while their
mask is the host, and the only way to win

big cash and prizes is to read minds, a feat
even I can't achieve, as much as I dream at
night about it. Each morning if I wake up and
blink until my eyes water, maybe I'll catch the moment

when the personae falls. Whatever this is, it's an unwelcome
gloom hovering over my body, like the Reaper and his
twin pistols, ready with a loaded gun to my face one
second after ten minutes fly in the endless tower. I

must have decided that people will be the unwavering
death of me.

My War

My War: David Romtvedt

I refused though somehow ended up
in the Congo where no one cared
that i was a noncombatant. "wrong."
My father said, doubly so - "First
for shrinking your duty and, second,
for refusing to return fire"

"I could not kill a brother." I told him.
"Not everyone is your brother." He returned.
I was sad to again disappoint my father
but felt better for having made my decision.
If there are some who deserve to die,
it's not my hand should do the killing.

Now I work with the volunteers sent round
the world to decommission forgotten
land mines. I'm happy to know that
some casual bather will not lose a leg
because of a past war. Happy, too, that
I can walk safely across the hot sand
and step into the ocean to swim myself.

The past is large and filled with wars.
Some people have favorites. Mine
was the Congo, where I never died.

My War: Gabby Gutman

Not physical, visible or tangible

Understandable or rationalized

But overruling, stressful

Over analyzed and full of neurosis

Channeled from a stubborn over competitive

Driven and determined mind

I have control over it

And I don’t have control over it

The grass is not always greener

And comparisons lead to disappointment

But I can’t not compare

Because what used to be was good

And was is, is sub-par

And so the war escalates

I open the wooden white door every night

And remember the other white door

That lead to laughing

Until tears poured out of my ear

Nurf gun fights, late night peanut butter

Ever-lasting friendships and a new family

They say not to cry because it’s over

But smile because it happened

And this war in my mind consumes me

Every corner I turn, place I go, person I talk to

Memories flood my mind and I’m overcome with sadness

This war is pathetic

But I don’t know how to win

The White Vase

The White Vase

Walking home one day

Finding that everything is where I left it

I find you, still sitting on the couch

Where you haven’t moved in 2 hours

I walk to my bedroom

Where I sit, quietly

Removing my work clothes and

Changing into something more comfortable

We sit, together at the table

Sipping that last drop of cabernet from 2007

We speak about our days, lives, futures

As I retire to my room, you stay behind

I slip under the covers, tired

Staring at the cabinet across the room

Watching the dust, slowly collect

On the white vase we bought years ago

The White Vase

By: Henrik Nordbrandt

The summer has still not gone

And you are still not gone

And I am still not gone

And the door is closed

And the afternoon sun warms the window-panes

And the shadow of the birch-trees darken

The dust on the black table

With the white vase.

And the dust just lies there.