Tag Archives: poem

Prose, Prosetry

Sacrilegious – Reilly Wieland

You’re the proverbs in my mind, the John 3:16 that turns over inside of me- even if that’s

sacrilegious

I am religious in a way that my god does not wear white,

but drinks his coffee black because his lips are like sugar

 

You are the sin I am confessing, the word that comes to me in my time of need and the being I say my Hail Marys for

Your lips are like wine, blessed, and they are mouthing something to me while I scroll through the pages in a fruitless attempt to find parables that justify this

 

I’ve found Eden in your breath, and it feels like my skin is etched with gold, like North Star of your love.

I am not a saint, but a martyr, and even when I fail to find my faith, you resurrect like on Easter Sunday- gifting your wisdom that reeks like like gold, frankincense and myrrh.

The letters according to you stating that it will be okay have been written on my mind in permanent ash, running deep in my veins with the way that you make me feel like I could turn water to wine.

 

When you’re around me I feel sacrilegious, the way you have your hand wrapped around my thoughts makes me question my beliefs because

 

the facts aren’t as easy to fall asleep with as heaven is, sometimes

and I don’t want to ever read scripture again if it isn’t about the way that you look during the summers

 

My church has no damnation or forbidden fruit, it has stories and you, and the prophetic power that I felt when you asked me who my god was

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Poetry

Thoughts – Harika Kottakota

A solemn beauty
Profound and universal, rooted and blooming
That entails enigmatic tomorrows
Rimmed with ochre
A dear requiem
Of scarce constancy
Teetering between virtue and sin
Like spinning dimes
A dogmatic mutiny
Alloys rage with leadership for blades
Winds, now messengers of cinder
Dwindles into reason
A robust spirit
Inoculates joy, tranquilizes despair
As it pledged upon
The frontiers of space and time
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Short Story

Mountains Are Hard to Overcome – Brooke Safferman

The box of crayons lay on the coffee table, stains from early-morning espresso tattooed on the mahogany. Leona rose upon her four-year-old legs and waddled her way over from her napping mat to empty out all of the colors from the Crayola carton: Cerulean, Yellow Green, Green Yellow, Fuschia, Purple Mountain Majesty… Purple Mountain Majesty. Leona asserted her dominance over the crayon, pressing with as much force as her pudgy hand could muster until the tip shrunk away into dullness.

“Nice picture, Leona! I’ve never seen a purple person before in my life, but you’ve done a great job. Is that a tutu on him?” her father exclaimed. “Huh! Maggie, come look at Leona’s work!” Leona’s mother clacked across the marble floor in practical heels that were the perfect companion to her equally-practical pinstripe pant-suit.

“Oh, Leona!” Maggie’s voice echoed upwards thirteen feet to the ceiling. “Tell Mommy and Daddy about your pretty picture. James, go grab the video camera! We should save this.” Leona’s father galloped out of the room, searching for the Sony camcorder. Maggie peered over Leona’s shoulder to get a better look at the drawing. She bit her flawlessly manicured cuticles when she saw. “JAMES. You didn’t tell me that Leona drew… this! Come back in here right now. We need to talk about this!”

When he returned four minutes later, he pressed the “RECORD” button despite his wife’s displeasure, and Leona began her artist’s statement. “Purple Mountain Majesty is my most favorite color. It’s my favorite because it’s very pretty and so is the person I drew. He is a princess, because both boys and princesses are my favorite, too!” Leona giggled, kissing the princess.

James’s eyes widened as he whispered, “Should I keep recording?” Maggie bit her lip. Nodding her head, as making quick yet sound decisions was a talent of hers, she sat down on the burgundy leather couch and patted the cushion beside her. Leona loyally clambered up next to her, waving her picture in her mother’s face.

“Leona, aren’t people white or black, usually? You know people aren’t purple, right, sweetheart?” Eyes locked between mother and daughter. James puzzledly attempted to zoom in with the camera with no avail.

“You can’t tell if a person is good or bad if they are white or black. That’s why I picked Purple Mountain Majesty, because that is a color I love. So, I know this person is nice.”

Maggie flipped open her pocket mirror and applied her “Perfectly Passionate”-hued lipstick, which she always thought demanded attention. She turned to her husband. “James, shut the camera off.” James fervently shook his head in protest. “James, I mean it. Turn it off. Now.”

“No way, Maggie. Let her keep talking. Ask her more questions.”

Maggie blew a forceful breath out of her nostrils, and shut her eyes. “Fine. So Leona, honey, why on Earth did you make such a pretty princess be a boy for, huh? Mommy knows you love both boys and princesses, but princesses can only be girls!”

James finally turned off the camera. “Maggie.”

“What? It’s true! You want her to think that boys can wear fairy tutus and princess crowns and prance around as they please? I’m doing her a favor here, James. I’m doing us a favor.”

At that moment, Leona scrambled off the couch and plopped down next to her nearby arts-and-crafts box. She unscrewed the cap to the pink glitter, and poured the entire tube onto the form of the princess. James and Maggie’s eyes flicked back to meet each other’s glances.

“Spreading hatred is the opposite of doing us a favor. Let her do what she wants.”

“No! I will not have my little girl confused about the way things should be. Boys cannot be princesses, and people are not purple. End of story.” Maggie stood up, reaching for her structured leather briefcase. The cross-body style was practical, something Maggie not only adored but also used to rationalize paying $1,258 for it at the local Neiman Marcus. She was home for the afternoon only because her sister was coming into town. “And Jenna will be here any minute, and I expect you to be nice this time.”

Maggie clacked off into the master bedroom to change into something less office-ready, leaving James standing in the family room by himself. His brow furrowed. There’s nothing wrong with princess boys! Lee-Lee’s just a little kid; she can do whatever the hell she wants. Maggie needs to stop being so strict all the time. He kneaded his stubble a little too forcefully as he contemplated, leaving a red spot along his jawline.

Leona dumped the glitter off of her picture. It was only sticking to the tutu because she had squeezed some glue onto it, an action unnoticed during her parents’ mêlée.

“Maaaa-gieeeee!” Maggie’s twin, Jenna had the type of voice that made a guy wish he magically had earplugs lying around in his pockets. James stifled a groan.

“JENNA!” Maggie scurried across the floor, assaulting her sister with a hug. She had put on jeans and a cardigan, which although more casual than her pantsuit, were still very sensible.

“Hey, Jenna,” James mumbled. If Jenna heard him, she didn’t show it. The 28-year-old sisters compared everything constantly – careers, love lives, manicures. Competition was the norm with these two, and it gave James a tension headache. He shuffled into the bathroom to worship the Excedrin gods. Leona, on the other hand, worshipped Jenna.

“Leona, look how pretty you are! And my God, so grown up! You’re going to drive all the boys crazy with desire.” Jenna stroked Leona’s fine strands of strawberry blonde strands hair as her gaze drifted to The Drawing.

“I drew a boy right now, too!” Leona’s smile, lacking front teeth, was enchanting enough to cause Jenna to accept that there was a purple boy that looked like a princess waving around in her face.

“Can I get you some coffee.” Maggie didn’t wait for an answer because it wasn’t spoken as a question. She hurried into the kitchen and began fumbling with the Keurig.

Jenna reached out and held Leona’s paper in her hands, running her index finger upon the sticky glitter. “Leona… Oh, Leona, you did draw a boy, didn’t you?”

James emerged from the bathroom, massaging his temples. “She did a good job, Jenna. Purple Mountain Majesty is a great color. It’s a color of inspiration. Mountains are hard to overcome. You need a lot of strength, especially mentally, to climb them.”

“I know this. I think it’s beautiful, James. It might not be Maggie’s cup of tea, but I am a big fan of the arts. Can you get us some tape?”

Jenna took Leona by the hand and together they strode out of the room. That lady is so damn high and mighty, James thought. He soon joined them, tape dispenser in hand. Jenna pressed Leona’s drawing up to the girl’s bedroom wall with one hand, and gestured with the other to James for him to come over and help her out.

“There!” He smiled, smoothing the tape against the wall. Leona clapped her hands, her giggle frolicking throughout the room.

“NO.” Maggie stomped in, brusquely setting the coffee mug she was holding on Leona’s dresser. She made her way over to her daughter’s offending wall décor.

“Stop, Maggie!” Jenna tried to pry her sister’s hands off of the picture but with a final tug, Maggie obtained the purple-hued male princess in her well-groomed clutches. Jenna could only stare, unable to disguise the hurt in her eyes.

James stood back, raking his fingertips through his hair. If they were going to start arguing, he was not going to stay. Leona looked up at him, her rapidly blinking eyes wet with confusion.

“Come on, Lee-Lee. Wanna do something fun? Let’s go get you some ice cream!” Nodding, Leona locked an arm around her father’s leg, and wiped her nose on his jeans. He didn’t care for them much because they were a little tight in the seat, but Maggie insisted they looked great. They were from True Religion.

“James, wait.” All eyes shifted to Maggie. “Don’t go.” She looked. Her husband and little girl were going off to have fun without her.

“Why not? So I can watch you teach our daughter to buy into all this hatred and bullshit we’re force-fed to believe!?” He was next to his wife now, pointing one shaking finger at the paper in her hand.

“No,” she whispered, gazing down at Leona’s masterpiece. She began gently swabbing away tears with her thumb.

“Why, then?” he asked softly, placing his palm on the small of her back.

“I need more tape.”

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Prose

Kaleidoscope – Casey Miller

It was like an old, unfinished film
With the melody and tune
A lea full of kaleidoscopic posy
It was like a dream to her
Boys and girls gathered in rhythm,
Lovers and friends and colors swirling
And flowing and happy and warm
Drinking and eating and inhaling and believing
Frolicking in fields of wildflowers, feeling as free
As the petals escaping with the breeze
Petals flying far away, skipping over countries
And continents until they find their match, their lover
She dances, eyes shut, waiting for hers
To take her by the hand and to whisper in her ear
To tell her where they are going, without saying why

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Prosetry

1953 – Casey Miller

Bronzed skin spills over lounges with a heated sun
Melting them into the white Aegean landscape
Sun hats are the only shade in these areas
Aristocrats basking above cliffs thousands of feet below
Women fawning over Hepburn’s eyebrows, claiming to spend
Thousands on their own mien frons
Men like body builders with tanning oil slipping off their figures,
Like kings diving into the lagoon
As their queens gush over engagements,
Marriages occurring a thousand miles away
Or a jaunt to the next island
And the pool boy observes, he watches
As the young, rich and famous and younger, richer and famouser
Spill posh secrets and spend high numbers
On rounds of Greyhound cocktails
As they gossip about Eisenhower’s hidden agenda
And the new British Queen’s past love affairs
But they certainly were not prepared.
Neither the pool boy nor the rich and famous
expected what came next, as the Yenice-Gönen
quake struck, and shattered their very existence.

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Poetry

Who am I – -Daphnie Ivelisse Rodriguez

Who am I?

Who am I
but a delicate porcelain vase
that someone lets slip from their
hands
to break into fragments that hide
in the darkness?
Who am I
a new-born fawn that has no strength
to pick itself up?
Who am I
but simply a bird who can no longer soar into
the skies to the destinations it has
dreamed of?
Who am I
but simply a forgotten love
replaced?
Who am I
similar to a secret known to cause shame
and cowardliness?
Who am I?
Who am I…

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Prosetry

His Internal Valor – Bryn Bluth

Note from the author: “I wrote it after finding out a close friend had HIV (the title is an acronym, and the “red banner” I talk about in the piece is a metaphor for HIV)”

This boy I know, wears a red banner over his heart. It is hidden below the many layers he wraps himself in, exposing it to no one. I’ve unwrapped him though, many times, felt the bare skin of his vulnerability, seen the reality of it all. He brushes it off like it is nothing, preferring not to talk about it, covering up again, quickly, pretending the red banner isn’t there-
But it is.

I wish I could take the red banner away from him, take its place, mend the scars with hope, but that won’t happen, he is the only one who can do that. All I can do is keep his company, play along with his masquerade of denial. I sometimes wonder what he was like when he was younger, carefree and unable to comprehend the significance of the red banner. “Never grow up,” I want to tell the younger him, “never lose your spunk.

I knew, somewhere in me I just knew, the second I first made eye-contact with those verdigris eyes of his, that he was here for a reason, that is, in my life. I knew in that instant, that he had something under that grayscale expression of his- something I had to find. I don’t think the red banner is all I had to find though, it came too easily for that to be true. In all honesty, I believe I’ve just hardly scratched the surface.
He’s a diamond, hard to find, hard to crack, but energetically scintillating from each quirk, flaw, and facet-

Red banner and all.

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Prose

Talk Again Soon- Brooke Safferman

While pots and pans were clattering in the sink by the pressure of the water that was spewing out forcefully, Ralph smirked. For a 46-year-old who was just left by his wife last week, he was carrying on with his life just fine without her.
​“That bitch,” he muttered, tugging on the sprinkle of hairs around his cherry of a belly button. Hmm, I should probably take it a little easier on the beer, though.
​With one hand, he set down his Ronzoni tri-colored penne that was honestly a little too al dente for anyone’s taste – Ralph shrugged when he tried it – and pan-fried chicken on his beloved coffee table that he purchased twenty years ago at Bob’s Discount Furniture, while his other hand was occupied with far more pressing matters. There were no tissues in sight, so he selected Option 2 by jamming his finger up his nose. Plopping his rotund self onto the couch, he saw ESPN was already on the television, waiting for him.
​“Hey, thanks,” Ralph said running one of his meaty paws, including that same unfortunately just-occupied finger, through his shockingly red tuft of a receding hairline.
​“Don’t mention it.”
​“How’ve you been? We haven’t talked in a while…”
Silence.
“C’mon, answer me! I miss having you to talk to. You understand me. Not many people do, you know.”
​“I know. But you and I also know that us talking is wrong, Ralph. We both know this. Doctor Schroeder told us we gotta quit talking like this.”
​“I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Ralph pouted. “You and I have a great connection.”
He looked up at the television, which was getting a bit staticky. Bad connection. He sighed heavily as he rose off the couch the way a helicopter does from a helipad – rather grotesquely but all the while with an element of grace.
“Prepare for lift-off!”
“Hey, we promised Doctor Schroeder you’d talk nicer to me.”
“Or did we promise we’d stop talking in general?”
“Stop that!”
“Stop that!”
“Don’t mock me, I mean it.”
“How are the pills, Ralph? I wasn’t aware you didn’t want me around anymore.”
“I haven’t taken them in a week! C’mon, you know that. That’s how you’re here right now!”
“Are you lonely, Ralph? Why do you only talk to me when you feel lonely?”
“Don’t do this to me. You just kept saying how we ought to stop, and now you’re acting so needy… Wait! WAIT! I’m so sorry, wait, stop! Don’t go!”
Ralph rubbed his temples. He was alone now. From his throne in the living room, he had an unobstructed view of his bedroom. He angrily eyed the bottle of untouched pills that stood stoically upon his nightstand. He’d be damned if he ever took those again. Quite quickly, his original sense of sadness disappeared as a small smile manifested itself on his sweaty face. He knew they’d talk again soon.

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Poetry

Shining Reverie – Brooke Safferman

Shimmering reverie,
Where the statuesque mountains tower over uncharted streams as alert as you did
Those vivacious, pulsating nights as the stars did shine
Though not as bright as your wildfire eyes
And though not as bright as your electrical mind
Nothing can compare to the impulses of within
The internal itches that make one roused with a perverse delight,
Nor the external urges that make one tremble with anticipation of the indefinite, the unguaranteed
One time you instructed me to follow your lead
I agreed, dutifully, loyally, stepping along
My bare feet made ever-lasting prints upon the marshy rapture
My steps were to the pace of my own rhythm
But the sweet, sweet melody in the background,
Well, that was all yours.

You showed me, with a grand, sweeping gesticulation of your right arm
All that the world is composed of,
From the arcane way that blades of grass can be split down their centers
And create two out of what previously was only one
To the way moss grows upon pavement built of brick,
Creeping into crevices and finding itself a new home in the spaces I had never known to previously exist.

I suppose, in theory, you hadn’t provided me with too much
But yet, you thrust upon me a landscape, un-gated
A world of boundless expansion of the mind,
Reaching further and further into my nebular abyss

All you ever did was introduce me to life
But without such an overture as enchanting as yours,
I would have never known how simply sweet the melody is:
(The melody that we stepped to on that dazzling, radiant evening)

The Anthem of the Living.

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Prose

The Regalities of Plainness — Bryn Bluth

I promised not to intrude, not to pull you apart thread by thread, only to restitch you into something you aren’t, someone more beautiful and poetic than you are, but I’m breaking that promise, Dear Friend, breaking one thing to fortify another, and I am sorry, because I hate to rift our friendship, but I need to do this. You will forgive me, I am sure of it, and if you don’t, that is your character in question. P

Through cascades of colored ribbon that are our voices, mine a solid forest green, yours, a vivid purple, I found you intriguing, a person of interest, someone I wished to know. My aspirations of friendship were eased through common threads in the textiles that we are made of; a favorite author, a fondness for music, and corresponding views on society made me comfortable with the concept of you.

Although I realize you may not see me as much, just a childish plaything there for your amusement, to talk to and soon forget about, I will have you know that I disregard your pretension, I am blind to every negative thing about you. This is not denial, it is the way I choose to live my life, and I hope that you might see this through your oblivion to the positive.

Hearing you hum out the emotions of you, plucking away six-stringed anxieties, I find myself thinking. You may say that I am always thinking, but in all honesty, I am really only over-thinking, which is so different from the trim, organized thoughts I think when a tune of yours is there to sift them out for me. I can’t remember serenity, what it feels like, but music takes my cluttered mind as close to it as possible, and yours is not the exception. Keep it coming, I long to hear your solemn expressions.

You, in one word, are an outlier, perpetually engaged in silent mental warfare with your own person, yet trying to contend with the frustrations and simple agitation of the world. There is no need to find yourself, only express it. I think you do a marvelous job, slipping snarky comments between utterances of pure comprehension, throwing us all off just enough to continue on with your independent cognition. I see what you are doing, and although I find it harder to communicate day by day, and my internal brilliance is held captive in a shell of naïve gaiety, I know the strategies of cerebral combat you are using, for I practically created them.

I realize you’d rather be left alone, rather recluse to the depth of your logic and never be human, but you don’t, and I am so thankful for that, because although at times I find you to be a conundrum, like the infinitely unsolved Rubik’s Cube sitting on my desk. I will always be here, me and my empty compliments, my empty compliments and I, we’ll wait for you. Until the day comes that you find yourself in need of justification, I will wait.

I realize now that I haven’t broken the aforementioned promise, that is, that I wouldn’t write you as something you aren’t. I haven’t broken it because everything I’ve written here is valid and honest, no author’s license needed, just a few metaphors. This epiphany does not counteract my firm stance that you will never read this, that is a promise that will remain standing, you will never read this, and I am sorry. I look forward to the day you wear those impeccable flaws on your sleeve, the day you show everyone and me past the tip of the iceberg, the day I know will come, because your webs of pretension and modesty cannot shield me from the depth of you.

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