ENGLISH JOURNAL #12 (2012) The Gunnery

Washington, Connecticut

E N G L I S H J O U R N A L #12 (1.2012) cover photo by Thom Hart What Is In Your Pocket? by Elle Sutherland……………………………………………………...1

photo by Thom Hart…………………………………………………………………………………..2

A sea of silence by Sarah Lombard………………………………………………………………..3

Colored by Tyffany Richards………………………………………………………………………4

Alone by Graham Pough…………………………………………………………………………...5

Two remixes of a poem by Jay Bonti……………………………………………………………..6

YellowJacket by Jay Bonti…………………………………………………………………………7

Virgin by Jay Bonti………………………………………………………………………………...8

Haiku by Sarah Shulman…………………………………………………………………………10

One day in 1359 BCE by Renee Waller…………………………………………………………..11

three from facebook notes by Thom Hart………………………………………………………12

The Hair Story by Tyffany Richards……………………………………………………………..13

A Winter Tree by Yea Weon Kim………………………………………………………………..14

photo by Falon Moran……………………………………………………………………………….16

Rain by Veronica McStocker……………………………………………………………………..17

Lost by Veronica McStocker……………………………………………………………………..18

Write-a-Poem by Graham Pough………………………………………………………………...19

Control by Sarah Shulman………………………………………………………………………..20

photo by Thom Hart………………………………………………………………………………....21

The Introduction to the Riley Anthology by Ian Riley…………………………………………22

Poems by Thom Hart…………………………………………………………………………….23

The Trusty Horse by Ian Riley…………………………………………………………………..26

photo by Yea Weon Kim……………………………………………………………………………...27

Happened Upon by Micaela Grogan…………………………………………………………….28

Corporate Office by Tyffany Richards…………………………………………………………...30

My Clock Pants (after Vallejo) by Renee Waller………………………………………………...31

photo by Yea Weon Kim……………………………………………………………………………...32

The Chronicles of Man by Sagine Corrielus……………………………………………………..33

Poem by Sarah Shulman………………………………………………………………………….36

Villanelle by Beatrice Rubin……………………………………………………………………...37

photo by Thom Hart………………………………………………………………………………....38

Six Feet Under by Beatrice Rubin………………………………………………………………..39

Love In Death’s Hands by Beatrice Rubin……………………………………………………...40

photo by Miriam Canut Segura………………………………………………………………………..42

Poems by Chris Olson……………………………………………………………………………43

English Journal is The Gunnery’s midyear literary journal. Content may be shared with the school’s formal end-of-year literary publication, the Stray Shot. The editors for 2011-2012 are the Advanced Creative Writing class: Jay Bonti, Kate Eldridge, Thom Hart, Ricky Fan Jiang, Yea Weon Kim, Sarah Lombard, Veronica McStocker, Chris Olson, Graham Pough, Mac Peeler, Tyffany Richards, Sarah Shulman, Alex Sproviero, Elle Sutherland, Renee Waller, and Nick Benson. Our thanks for technical and material support go to Anna Kjellson, B.J. Daniels, Frank Perrella, and Maggie Bucklin. Back issues may be found at ‘Student Publications’ on The Gunnery website under ‘Students.’  

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What Is In Your Pocket? by Elle Sutherland

It differs from day to day – I might find some cold hard clay, For some reason it reads the name Rae? For heaven’s sake! There is the money I was going to use to buy a shake! I hate it when that happens, Wait, Why is that man rappin’? Third block class, I feel like I am being harassed. I said I would bring the donuts… They might shoot me off in a rocket, I wish that Dunkin Donuts gift card was in my pocket Gum, Gum, Gum, where is my gum? All I want is something to chew on… Yum, Yum, Yum Thank the heavens that I found two more! I swear if I couldn’t do my laundry, my roommate would have died for sure! My pocket in my red jacket, I swear to god we shall never loiter Because you, you gave me my last two quarters. Pockets, Pockets, Pockets You really know how to rock it! You present me with gifts And my bad day, my bad day, it shifts.

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photo by Thom Hart

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A sea of silence by Sarah Lombard Dear Friend: Where have you been? The waves swept you from shore Drowning me in tears As water violently crashed into the creek A hand emerged from the water The seagull flew right past you He didn’t stop to help No one did We wrote letters in the sky Waiting for you to swim home You never did Maybe the wind erased the message Maybe the salt stung your eyes shut I put a seashell to my ear And tried to listen to your lingering laugh All I hear are distant memories From when we were friends But those will drift away soon Just like we did Years ago

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Poem by Tyffany Richards

Colored

What are you? Call me colored but I won’t be offended. Just means to me I’ve got more shading

Than a black and white portrait Different shades In one picture

But aren’t you black? In a way

More like mahogany Smooth almost dark brown with a red undertone

Not shiny blue black Brown like the soil

Or tree bark Like cardboard boxes Like coffee and milk

Where are you from? Not here not there

Everywhere Where are you from?

I’m from many places around the world But I am from my mother and father and the earth itself

Who are you? I am me.

Mahogany brown skinned me Who identifies with everything and everyone

Colored. Not Black entirely, nor White

Not Asian or Latino Nor Indian

Not entirely. Just

Mahogany brown Colored girl

Congratulations to Tyffany for having this poem chosen to be read at the ASAP Celebration of Young Writers in spring of 2011; the poem was recently recovered, and we thank Tyffany for sharing it with us.

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Alone by Graham Pough Memories, don’t leave me Stay by my side to keep me warm Keep a watchful eye to keep me from mistakes Make me laugh Make me cry Memories, don’t leave me Return to me, old friends Forgotten characters of my life’s story Reduced to nothing more than memories Of grains of sand on a beach Return to me, Old Friends Come back, Happiness. You old temptress in the back of my mind I feel you slipping away, As I claw at your impossible to grasp hands. Don’t succumb to the darkness of memory Don’t confine yourself to a thought of the past Give me a sign that you will always be there. Come back, Happiness.

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Two remixes of a poem by Jay Bonti As [remix by Renee Waller] As I caress your hair, to the touch so lush The smell so sweet It could be a crush. As day and night become one Everything has an opposite. Are you mine? As I look into your eyes I see the sun rise Against the starry night. I am at no surprise And we are still together. We can accomplish anything Everything is possible because of us. I'll be yours no matter what And we are still together. BOUNTI [remix by Sarah Shulman] Every day, sometimes, almost always, sometimes, I think of you. We can accomplish anything, Everything. Being "us" is the reason. Day becomes night, night becomes day. Here we still stand. Different pieces of everything, clustered within, come out during times of rejoicing. We, Us, have peace. We live in a world of opposites, but you and I are not one.

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YellowJacket by Jay Bonti Yellow shirt ripped jeans tore clean People say you are what thou eat What happens when you open your refrigerator door Have nothing but the mice that have already eaten the meat You eat nothing so you are nothing Now that doesn't make sense Cleanse your mind and reset the result If all you have is your YellowJacket then hold onto it Be the bold and the few The few bold exist to show the rest what to do And those people are the YellowJackets

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Virgin by Jay Bonti I hate lying I'm an honest guy so I'll tell the world how it was We were never the best family but we always had our love When it was good it was great but when it was bad it was the worst In the end we always came up with our chin up Mom tells me keep your head up But when I keep it up I let my neck be exposed I want to conceal my tic but I can’t it’s like catching smoke Caught in the middle of a war Hearts made of stone and the body numb Snuck in the house dried dripping blood bloodied nose Crows circled above the bloodied body time flies by when you're having fun but then it froze She came down saw my face She broke down cried and died inside Her hands raised and eyes closed Tears ran down her face as she realized what life had chose She went back upstairs Step by step Apologizing in my head I don't deserve the current credit that I'm currently given and I don't deserve the current life style that I'm currently living I'm currently livid I go to my room face bloodied hurt choked up Packing my bags choking on my blood charcoaled throat burnt up Chest hurts I want to cry but I don't want to get choked up Bags packed eyes bloodshot throat smoked up Got my food shoes laces I'm laced up I'm ready to run Out the door soon did I forget anything Unlocks the lock Hears a voice, "Birdy" "Hey buddy" As the 5 year old runs to me as I embrace his still sleeping body wearing his buzz lightyear onesie "What's wrong Birdy" Tears water-falling from my bloodshot eyes "Nothing buddy. I just love you. So much." He says as he cries "Can I get a glass of Milk Birdy?" "Of course buddy. I'll be right in." The boy scampers off into the kitchen. My knees weak as I try to stand.

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I fall back to the wall crouch down to my knees with my chest still covered with my own blood. Throat hurts like it's being squeezed by thongs heated in the devils furnace. Pick yourself up and put yourself together. I stand up dropping my packed bag on the floor. He can't reach the milk so I have to get it for him. We share the glass with glee. Gossiping about the previous day. Whispering secrets never to be spoken of again. How silly it was for the boy to be up so late. It was their own little secret. All theirs. He only remained for the boy. He was all his. That was, The First Time The Last Time I was truly Happy

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Haiku by Sarah Shulman

Sitting Alone at the Breakfast Table Writing, thinking very hard, Flying through Oh, No, which to choose Hey, Eyes up here please Get your head out of your pants, Dumb dirty thinkers. Coffee, coffee, coff— WOW, so much caffeine in me Coffee, coffee, CRASH To be a Quaker. No, not the oatmeal, that’s wrong. Religious, oatmeal…. My awkward moments, I told Mr. XY that I’d do his babies. Last one, make it good. Or wait, I need my coffee, HA, I think Haiku.

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One day in 1359 BCE by Renee Waller

I went to the market and bought a necklace, two pieces of paper, and new cloth. While I was there I talked to One Who Listens about the stars. He told me he is giving advice for the placement of the pharaoh's pyramid so that on the special holiday of the second month, a precise shadow will be cast. I thought “how could the stars tell the answer to a shadow?” but I decided not to ask, because I didn't want to hear him give me a long explanation. He then began to tell me how important the stars are in the afterlife. And even though everyone in Thebes knew the story, he proceeded to tell me how they guide the dead to the kingdom of Osiris. I started to wonder what One Who Listens would bring into the afterlife. He devotes his life to the stars, and has no possessions that he can hold, that would be considered valuable. Maybe the gods will let him take a star.

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three from facebook notes by Thom Hart

pieces by Thom Hart on Thursday, June 10, 2010 at 1:38am I hand pieces of me out. they rarely if ever are returned it's a funny process getting away with murder by Thom Hart on Monday, May 17, 2010 at 8:11pm romance is dead chivalry is dead Latin is dead what else have these modern times killed? thinking moving wasting. by Thom Hart on Monday, May 10, 2010 at 11:07pm wasted time wasted faces look around and see the places you could have been

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The Hair Story by Tyffany Richards Once upon a time, there was a blond hair on my shoe, And no matter how hard I tried to get it off It just grew and grew and grew The more I tried to cut it The bushier it grew Until, one day it finally swallowed me and you Inside it was quite cozy We got used to living there But all the while we had this constant underlying fear What did this blond hair want from us? What was it going to do? How long would we be subjected to living on the underside of my shoe? One day I finally figured it out Suddenly it popped into my head We could cut all the hair And stuff it in my nice new comfy bed We chopped and chopped and chopped And we stuffed and stuffed and stuffed And finally my bed was extremely super puffed. But the blond hair had more plans It continued to grow and grow and grow Until my new bed looked like a hairstyle From the Bronner Brother’s Show It took over the apartment It took over the street Until we all realized we just couldn’t compete So everyone took a flamethrower And then….

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A Winter Tree by Yea Weon Kim

A mother’s love shining on weak light and a brown tree. There, No leaves, no birds or squirrels ... only black Lost flowers, floating shifting in a dew Created by brown horse hairs Oh, Lonely and What a lonely tree nothing around it, only a white white Wonderland that greets black, flower, dew, tree. Touching the two clouds -----------------high upon the sky Why torture yourself you poor thing that’s why Your hand has no circulating blood Yes, I know I know your loneliness, I might be your mother, Please come down from that cloud that freezes Your life; it will hurt you; cloud promises no harm, But they are all lies; I know your loneliness; I am your mother, Please come down from the cloud before I drop tears; I can’t lose you I’ve lost others in whiteness already; clouds’ cold hands Took them away -------- evaporated; Don’t tell Me to live without you. I am your mother, I’ve known You very well; I was always there right Next to you touching your shoulder, shoulder to shoulder Come down my dear, our beloved one, your Hurt will be gone; your heart will be back; Bump Bump. Can you hear? Can you hear this? I see your Fingers tapping on the air. I hear you. Yes, yes of course, I know you. Don’t worry; I can read your eyes Your eyes Are beautiful; it will be more beautiful if you come down. You must Be afraid! Hush! but don’t cry remember? I’ll be with you I’ll hold your tiny fingers that I love to hold; Please now Close your eyes and come down Come down my dear Come down just remember I know you; Come down I want your sunny smile

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photo by Falon Moran

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Rain by Veronica McStocker The rain crashes down on the sidewalk Like tears falling from your cheek. Tears of disappointment, worry, and regret Ruin your already planned day. All because of a last minute change. But the tears, The rain, Always dries up, It doesn’t rain forever. And when it rains, You have a beautiful sunny day To look forward to. A bright future, Already forgotten About that one rainy day. And besides, I heard a song one time, And it said, “Night has always pushed up day.” So this night that I am in right now, Has to push up the day of tomorrow. Things get better, They always do. I’m sure of it. Rain and tears, Watery sorrow, Always dries up, Evaporates. Gone without any evidence Of that one day. And maybe it will take a while, Maybe this won’t dry up so quick. Floods can take weeks to dry up. But they always do.

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Lost by Veronica McStocker Have you ever been so lost, That you don’t know where to go? Not in the sense of Needing directions on the road lost, But the kind of lost when you aren’t really sure who you are. Well, Maybe you know who you are. Or who you’d like to be. But you aren’t sure of how to get there? Everything is so complicated, Sometimes I sit and think. Who am I? What am I even doing? It keeps me up at night, This constant worry that I won’t be Everything that will make everyone proud. I won’t live up to everyone’s expectations, I can’t make everyone happy. Sometimes I even try to see myself from outside. If I didn’t know me, what would I think of me? Would I think that I am the perfect daughter? Would I think that I am the perfect student? Am I a perfect citizen? Would I be proud of me? I don’t know. Am I even good? I know I try, But is that good enough?

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Write-a-Poem by Graham Pough I just don’t care anymore Silently my mind is ringing My eyes sag to the floor To my childhood I’m clinging Why I’m not quite sure Scared of what the world is bringing What it has in store Like the fabled raven singing My youth is nevermore And I’m trying to explore my feelings It’s not very appealing But it’s the best type of healing Thinking of a world filled with hate Is it too late to change our ways? Before we’re stuck in a haze Looking back on our days Regretting our choices Keeping down all of our voices But why? So we can stay silent till we die? I don’t want to be in a grave With a tombstone that lies “here lies a good man” But a man who never took a stand A man who obeyed commands A man who always raised his hand. Instead of just speaking up Cause he was scared That his thoughts were impaired And they told him beware of how fast the world can move but I still don’t know what the %$#@ I’m gunna do I thought I knew But I don’t have a clue. So here’s my poem based on Langston Hughes.

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Control by Sarah Shulman Okay, we are told to control ourselves, But it’s our selves that control us. Think about it: When some are angry they throw things, they say things. When some are happy they jump, they scream, they smile. When some are sad they lose words, they lose motivation, they cry. Emotions are physical: fear, hope, and other in-between emotions. What is there to control, when it is not in our control? Or is it “self-control” society aims for. To those who relate self-control to success, You may be right, But if you relate success to happiness, There is a certain line that is crossed, And in turn those same lines are being crossed When relating self-control to happiness. Next time the phrase “control yourself” is used, Think about what type of control is meant, What is there that needs to be controlled. Should we start controlling to a point where we become a race of robots, With so much pent up inside, that we have already Created our own demise? What would happen If people did not hold it in? There would be so much more to everything, Everything would mean something differently. But for now, I guess, we will keep what we hold in a box, In the corner, and leave it there. One day we’ll open it. When? That is up to you.

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photo by Thom Hart

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The Introduction to the Riley Anthology by Ian Riley The Introduction to the Riley Anthology seems to be in essence a history lesson. It provides a background for the stories which follow. It allows for a fuller understanding of those stories, an idea of the motivations behind them. With these ideas, with knowledge of the motivations, we are better able to read and appreciate all that is behind these stories and letters. I like using non sequiturs to end paragraphs.[i] The creation stories are certainly an interesting take on the matter. Juhwertamakhai[ii], the god figure, does not hesitate in the least bit to “drop the sky” on creation when he deems it necessary. The idea of the great flood is certainly present here, but the multiple occurrences seem unusual. They suggest a god who is not easily pleased. The final creation implies the importance of the coyote, a direct result of the landscape the people call home. Dolphins are quite intelligent animals. Another creation story includes the idea of a dark, lower, realm. The monsters of this realm include a large turtle who comes forth to carry woman and earth on his back. The turtle grows to the size of a great island and the woman’s offspring grow to be the good mind and the bad mind. The good mind creates humankind along with many other things which the humans consider to be good. Conversely, the bad mind creates things objectionable to humans.[iii] In the end, the good mind triumphs over the bad mind, but the bad mind retains power over death. Jerry Seinfeld has had quite a successful career.[iv] The letters from Columbus are an interesting look into what he has to say, a look into what he actually thinks he has discovered. His use of the word Indians to describe the natives confirms his belief of where he thinks he is. When he talks about the naming of the island Espanola, he reveals his real imperialistic motives. This ties into the other creation stories because it too is a story of creation, but this time it is the creation of a new empire in the western hemisphere. Beware Jimi Hendrix as the bell tolls one.[v] [i] And long walks on the beach. [ii] His brother’s name was Steve. [iii] Like Monday mornings. [iv] He makes several million $ per re-run (The Internet). [v] He’s very friendly at 4 o’clock though.

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Poems by Thom Hart

(The Blonde)

Dangerous times Especially to be A blonde of seventeen Or so Surrounded by Business associates And drink.

(I thought not) Did you do any work today? I thought not. Did you stimulate your mind today? No, that doesn’t count, be quiet. Did you care about anything? I thought not, you’re far too apathetic. So. What did you do today?

(The wind) the trees dance fields move leaves float waves crest and the wind, well it sings ‘round my house

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(Venus, my lover) I made love To Venus last night. In a dream the goddess came to me. She said, I will show you ecstasy And I followed her. Her face Was never the same, and As I recall she towered over me, Some barbaric Amazonian, But she was beauty, And beauty was she, And lust, And I thought of all the things That could have been, And will be. ° January The sweet aroma Released from The pores of the earth As the frost Steadily thaws and Spring is made Apparent, yet it is But January Love I will love You as long As love endures As a cliff Resentfully juts Out above The sea.

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I’ll find you And I’ll search High and low but on The mountaintop I will Find you waiting. Do not leave me. Look Look out the window, Look, it’s me, Or my soul. Look, it’s a popped Balloon, hanging On a dead branch. Look, I saw your Face today, but Every time it wasn’t You. Look, my friends are in the crowd. You Blood vessels straining You dare them to Push their limits I yearn with every Inch of my body Every breath, Every thought, Involves you. Monet Music on my eyes, Relief, contentment I am happy Thank god, finally, A Monet.

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The Trusty Horse by Ian Riley

As I neared the end of the pass, the bridge which I knew to look for came into sight, soaring majestically into the sky with the cables drawn taut, so unlike the skin of the ancient face with which I looked on. It had been designed in my youth, when the birds flew high in the sky and the sun shone gloriously as they swept past on their migratory course, unaware that man had now conquered the expanse of the skies above the canyon as well. My horse beneath me gave a cry as we drew closer, for the road was blocked ahead by several fallen boulders, who stood guard as the pass drew toward its end, closing all that was open, closing my only way of departure, for the way back had been made impassable by a cacophonous rockslide which occurred as I rode by and my horse let out an even more obstreperous burst of flatulence. This was likely the result of a meal of beans eaten each day for the previous fortnight, and I saw how this could be an advantageous situation as we approached the newly fallen barricade. I turned my horse about, with his rear facing the boulders, and prepared to wait as long as necessary for another bout of vapors to come over my animal. It was not a long interval before I noticed my horse’s countenance had assumed an appearance of great distress. The sound echoed for miles around, and the way to the bridge was clear of boulders, though now blocked by a cloud of noxious fumes. I held my breath and ventured on, happy to be on my way.

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photo by Yea Weon Kim

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Happened Upon by Micaela Grogan Huck thought he was alone on the island, When he saw a boat pass by Of those who cared and were unaware And believed, in reality, Huck died. Three days and three nights , Lonely and scared, yet curious. Blankets hung across, acted as a roof They helped keep him from the rain. Curiosity happened upon him. He found all types of berries, Had an encounter with a snake, And, trying to shoot it, fell on some ashes. His heart skipped a beat as he ran. Once in a while, stopping to listen, Felt like his breath was taken away, And all that was left was shame. On his journey of exploration, He happened upon Jim, slave of Miss Watson, Who ran away just as Huck did, But Jim heard Miss Watson was going to sell him. Jim and Huck decided to hide They happened upon a cave in the center of the island. No one would see them from the water, If they were too far inland to be seen. A great storm came upon them, As they sat in the cave, They saw a house float by, With a man, who had been shot, inside. Huck wondered about the man, And that bad luck might come upon him. He and Jim got in a canoe, And traveled to the Illinois shore.

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Huck was dressed as a girl, As he went to a woman’s house. She told him about the rumors Of what occurred between him and Jim…

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Poem by Tyffany Richards

Corporate Office He beat her last night

So when she came to work Sunglasses on, head lowered, hands folded

We knew something was wrong But no one wanted to question

And she wouldn’t say a word She just stayed silent the whole time.

Just took her sunglasses off And was oblivious to the whole office’s gasp

She was raped last night And she went home and told him, but he didn’t believe her

He wouldn’t let her get an abortion So nine months later

The office celebrated the new child’s life While she sat in a corner

Tears staining her face Dripping mascara marks

Dark streaks on her pretty face He killed her last night

And we all attended her funeral And gave praise for what a wonderful person she was

And cried tears for her Even though in actuality

We didn’t care We knew nothing about her

She meant nothing to us She was just another girl in the office

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My Clock Pants (after Vallejo) by Renee Waller

My clock pants cripple me. I can never get them off even when I try to break them with a hammer. I try to run out of them, away from them, but nothing works. I'm trapped, entangled in a fabrication and no matter how much I grow, I never outgrow them. The sun tries to give me directions to its house. Out there my pants can't exist and then I can be free. Every day for a good twelve hours the sun keeps trying to help me but on the thirteenth hour it gets tired and gives up. I stay glued to Earth waiting for the sun to show up again. My clock pants limit me and often scare the sun away. My clock pants know I'm trying to get rid of them and they can't stand the idea. Jupiter helps my pants by putting me to sleep so the pants can grow tighter around my waist. I desperately shoot a bright red bullet wanting to pierce the fabrication but it doesn't work. I'm trapped in time.

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photo by Yea Weon Kim

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The Chronicles of Man by Sagine Corrielus The man in the corner has no name. No direction. No cause. No purpose. No meaning I suppose. He sits with a newspaper in hand, A bagel in his lap And a Venti coffee Skillfully laid on the floor. Perhaps he needs it in return For those long restless nights He spends clamoring in the office. Or for the night unlawfully spent Away from his woman and children. He’s afraid. Sweaty palms Gripping the edge of the sports section. Beady eyes scanning the crowd Of busy people, going to busy places. He wants to laugh, but his throat closes, he starts choking. It’s this violent sudden motion that knocks his coffee off balance, dark black liquid seeps onto the dirty gray subway tiles. He clears his throat, Straightens his tie, With shaking fingers he bends To wipe away the mess with Page 6. But his hands shake too much now, He starts coughing louder Choking on his own spit, Suffocating on the tears that now begin to run from his eyes. The paper, damp from his sweaty hands and coffee, crumbles to the floor and so does he, with knees now covered in harsh dark liquid.

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Hands reach out to help him But it’s too late He’s far past help now. The man panics, the only thing left now to do is run, it’s the only thing he knows. So he does. Pushing past dozens of commuters He is liberated, He is free. Home calls and he answers. Hard soles tapping against the ground Moisture dripping from his face Arms flailing as if he was mad. He reaches the end of the platform, With no time to relish the moment, He tries to jump. 2 He used to be so happy. Ella smiles, With two front teeth gone, Passing the roast And he grins as he accepts. When did Ella get so old? Soon she’ll be too big to sit on his lap. He fills his plate to the brim With the brown cutlets, His blue gem class ring clinking As he moves his fork around in his hands. Carol laughs. He doesn’t quite catch it at first, But when she closes her mouth, He hears the sweet sound Echoing in his head.

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I love you, he blinks at her. She understands, Her eyes also full of warmth. Mike and Ella giggle. They understand too. He ruffles Mike’s hair Kisses Ella’s head Squeezes Carol’s shoulders and pecks her neck – Mike and Ella giggle some more – Then he excuses himself, Retreating to his office, As his family sits smiling wanly at the table.

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Poem by Sarah Shulman

Cry baby cry. Actually no, you’re giving me a pain. Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing. Your dog is rude; it bit me in the face. Yes it hurt. Cry baby cry. Your unshaven face is a playground for my fingers. Your baby blue eyes, a universe, which pulls me. Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing. Travel the world, and try new things. I’ll culture your belly, like it or not. Cry baby cry. Eight days a week I would make my self available. While you check your twitter, Slowly progressing sometimes depressing. Please, the sand is running thin, Get off your screen, and let me in. Cry baby cry. Slowly progressing, sometimes depressing.

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Villanelle by Beatrice Rubin Pen to paper, thoughts racing, Around a river’s bend, ideas sprouting to my hand, then erasing. Frustrating, not thinking, pacing, Trying to connect thoughts, Pen to paper, thoughts racing. Writing and now facing The errors maddening, correcting, editing, sprouting to my hand, then erasing. Expressing you and me combined, Sharing alike passions and songs, Pen to paper, thoughts racing. Of you and me, together pacing, Following thoughts, running, Sprouting to my hand, then erasing. To a blank page, hand tracing, Running thoughts, chasing. Pen to paper, thoughts racing, Sprouting to my hand, then erasing.

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photo by Thom Hart

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Six Feet Under by Beatrice Rubin Six feet under, and eight feet in length Lies a wooden box containing my heart. Memories arise from that misty grave as the movie replays within my mind and soul. I stand above what used to be you, you the one that has still captured my heart. As I peer downward a water work strolls past that pale surface that once belonged to you; A raindrop falling off a rose petal, drips, drips like a running turtle from a gray dark place that once was called home. Down on my knees, faced cupped within my hands, my vocal cords break as the movie begins. Over and over again the imagine of HIM, he who left behind so much in me, now gone from a cold dark world, as he drifts away into the rays of the golden sun. The movie continues, as I peer into his big brown watery eyes, that roll back within his head. Are those eyes ever coming around again to be seen? What is happening? His stomach is at a standstill, his face grows whiter and whiter like a brisk winter’s crackling dawn. Dawn becomes dusk and brings a chill to my bones. The cool blow from winter’s mouth strips the warmth from his body, as his golden glow turns to a purple blue. The ocean’s rough waves clash against his heart with one more inhalation. He who left so much in me exerts with all his might one last breath, now cut short by the will above. Stiller than the whisper of night he lays, glistening. I stand above, looking down under the earth’s secrets to find that box, within which our hearts lay combined. Mine lies besides yours, yet I still walk upon a cold, dark earth. A rush of cool air the breaking eve brushes upon me. My bones sink into the dark, the thrill of your soul haunts my body. Can I ever leave this gray grave? A strip of moonlight peeks through the clouds as it catches a glimpse of the side of my face. Am I a ghost wandering in the real world? What is left of me if not with you? Face glued to the ground where you lie and look up into my gray eyes. And from above, you watch over my pale glow. I feel you, I hear you, I speak to you, and you touch me, yet why can’t I see thee? You walk the ladder of golden stairs up and down, so close yet so far. Six feet under, and eight feet in length Lies a wooden box containing my heart. He who left behind so much in me, now gone from a cold dark world, drifts away into the rays of the golden sun.

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Love In Death’s Hands by Beatrice Rubin Blood red petals drifting down from a rose, Filling the summer’s breeze with song, With a musical intervention of silver drops, Rolling down a soft pale surface belonging to you. Pink lips gently brisk mine with a touch of love, Longing for the moment to last until death. Frozen blue hands overlapped, a silver kiss from death Brought to my heart, like broken petals from a rose Drifts in the wind, brings whispers of love To my ears, flowing like a river’s song That my heart once sang to you Now ending with unknown sorrows’ drops. I want to hold your hand, with blood red drops, Sawing from our intertwined fingers in death, Waiting for life to eagerly end, so that I may join you, Yet again, wishing to lie in a bed made of a single rose, Ears being filled with soft tunes rising from your vocal cords in song Booming down on me, drowning me in your love. Candlelight glows on my grieving love For you, the one that could dissolve my silver drops, Always words in them for you, summer’s ending song, Recently quieted by your death. We stand apart for now, yet life still stands in that rose That you gave to me the day my heart was given to you. The moonlight shines down upon you As the blood from my heart pours over your grave, with love, Longing for us to be together again, holding that rose. Now when the thorns prick me, cold drops Of blood fall upon the ground, and I feel the darkness of death Hover over me, to once again clash our hearts in song. I wish for nothing more than your ears to catch my song. My heart sings of love that I have given away to you, Even though you lie still beneath, touched by the hand of death.d My heart yearns for you, and thus expands in love, And even sheds broken silver drops Over pink petals of secrets held within that rose.

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I hope you see from above that my love Is true and that my heart belongs to you, Though our song now sheds black drops that bring death to the rose.

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photo by Miriam Canut Segura

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Poems by Chris Olson I am doing this Out of the goodness of my Heart, but go away. I wonder what day Will be the best day of my Super-duper, life. Stop staring at me Please sir, look away right now! But sir, I am blind. Hey, can you please stop! What are you talking about? Forget about it. Everyone counting Trying to finish all ten Of these damn Haiku I had four pieces Of gum, but I traded them For two, red, apples. I have a green one But you have a yellow one I think we should trade. Row, row, row your boat Killing yourself down the stream Merely?! No way! This is too mainstream I used to like it, but now My foes like it too… This can’t be the end It just cannot be here now. Well, I guess it is.