the mystery
of what is left unspoken
can be answered
by what is not.
Tag Archives: poet
i took a ride on the subway – Iman Messado
Pull your thoughts together
as if they were stray strings
dangling off the hem of your silk camisole
spend a lot of money on
transportation
because you have two legs
and lungs and motor skills
but you’re sitting on a tattered bus seat anyway
paranoia is a clinical illness
not the fluttering urge to
shut your journal when strangers
pile in through closing subway doors
whimsy means platinum
and milk and stars and sky
it means trees and kindness and strawberries
it means wit and welcoming
and probably feminism
always get on the metro at the first stop
so that then you can watch
pockmarked faces and pockmarked thighs
and toothless faces and gaping mouths
also,
you’ll have a seat.
maybe.
Dark Heart – Ugonma Ubani-Ebere
Darkness.
I can see it
My eyes are open, but I am still blind
I can feel it.
Empty, hollow, and a velvety sorrow.
I can taste it
A bittersweet fear, mixed with salty tears
I can hear it
A silent muted sound of desperation.
And my pulse racing with perspiration
I stretch out my hand to seek your solace
Nothing
I call out your name, so we can embrace
Nothing
I feel the loneliness creep up my spine
Nothing
I repeat my mantra that I am fine
Nothing
Darkness cannot exist without light
But where is the light in my time of need?
The light is the only thing my soul can heed
I press on in the pitch black despite my conscience opposition
The darkness draws me in without caution
I’m convinced that you are in the darkness waiting for me
I just can’t see
I continuously call out your name
Nothing
Hoping you will do the same
Nothing
Extending my hand for your touch
Nothing
I miss your voice so much
Nothing
No light can set apart
The darkness in my heart
I call for you once more in the absence of your presence
Nothing
I am nothing
So I welcome the darkness, not as an enemy
But an old friend.
Who my heart will cherish to the end
Takeoff – Alex Esterline
a·vi·a·tion
- the flying or operating of aircraft.
That which man previously thought impossible,
now sold commercially.
The world is connected by flights
to any destination one could need.
Millions fly every day, strapping themselves in,
preparing for their stomachs to counteract the
soaring climb through the clouds.
Some excited,
Some terrified.
As the wings soar through the pinkest of skies,
Most are scared of the plane itself,
yet there’s one thing i’d fear most-
it’s stepping out of the jetway, and
seeing you-
the one who leaves sunspots in my eyes.
What’s it like knowing
that the slightest touch of your hands
would surmount any ascent through the skies?
beliefs – Karlee Sanders
lovely,
unblemished,
immaculate,
perfection of the finest sorts.
never-ending purity and compassion,
ever flowing—yes—overflowing
with mercy and grace.
set apart,
holy, bold, and strong.
the King of all Kings.
Savior and honorary Lord of all.
miracle worker,
omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient.
Jesus.
this—this is what I believe in.
ks
We Tiptoe on Thorns – Poppy Lam
Forever alone
I’m surrounded by people
Merely puppets
With painted masks
Too afraid to rebel
To stand up to society
Unknowing eyes
Yet telling tales
Without words
They enjoy our fails
We swallow their glass
We Tiptoe on thorns
Aren’t you tired of loosing blood?
Aren’t you tired of wincing with every step?
Why not crack the mask and make your own path
The candle is already flickering
And It was evernescent from the start.
You Like to Play with Danger, Don’t You? – Brooke Safferman
You like to play with danger, don’t you?
Sexuality undulating like the ocean’s waves, wit as sharp as the scissors in your back pocket
Of course, you say, I like to be hands on, you say as you cut open the package with
One single line of bad intentions.
My eyes drop down to the dirt beneath the plot of grass, and
The toe of your left cowboy boot’s digging in to the very earth that birthed you
Mother, oh Mother, where are you now?
The entirety of my mind is a word-search puzzle,
Full of the words I cannot say because they’re all scrambled up hopelessly,
Like the eggs your papa used to cook for us when we were still just sleepy kids
But over the years I’ve learned the hard way not to hold your hand for too long because
You like to play with danger… don’t you?
Through Their Eyes – Poppy Lam
Through their eye’s everything is magnified,
A light touch is a mighty blow,
A flick of a switch is a raging storm,
A small ember is a seething hell,
They feel the need to convert experiences into masterpieces
Be it photos, drawing, music or writing
It may just be a snap of a camera but it’s their way of capturing their life and seeing it from a new perspective
It may just be a few sketchy lines but it’s how they portray their emotions and discover themselves
It may just be a few notes but it’s their sole way of communicating with the world
It may just be ink to a page but it’s their emotions soaring over the white landscape
The need to fill the obsidian darkness which lingers within
To drop the mask, stand back and watch it shatter
So you go and judge but we won’t be the one’s coughing up the ashes of a burnt out flame.
The Artist – Brooke Safferman
16 colored pencils lay before your handsthey are trembling with anticipation;
you are trembling with anticipation
a masterpiece waiting to be revealed
but you are the only one who can manifest it
and make it come to life with the power of your genius mind
the clock ticks on and suddenly you shake your head
there’s too much pressure to do the things that must be done
but the desire of making, of creating, of bringing to life, has begun to overtake you
dancing, your fingers are dancing as they slide the pencils across the page,
shapes and shades being formed by the colors of passion rather than that of the lead
I, too, originated as one of your masterpieces – and for that, I am forever grateful.
I’m Sorry – Alexandra Mayer
I am from a defeated town
with deadbeat afternoons,
lawn chairs and lemonade,
and church clothes that cling in the heat.
Our bones are heavy.
I told you, I loved you like
the shimmering but separate rainbow fish swirl of oil in the puddles of asphalt parking lots.
And then I left.
You told me
you wanted to get closer, closer
so we could breath each other in.
And then, like that, three years went by
without you.
I was in Philosophy of Ethics when I read your facebook status:
“I LIED. AND SO I’LL BE FERRYING THOSE OF YOU I CAN WITH ME TO THE NEXT WORLD. I’LL POST A BRIDGE BEFORE I LEAVE.”
The Professor went on.
Heraclitus once said, “Everything Flows.”
Plato revised: “Everything changes.”
I called.
Your voice sounded like a meteor tearing into earth.
I heard wisps of gold cloud your eyes, when you said,
“I’m high. I’m high. If you don’t love me, I’ll hang myself from the rafters of hell.”
Silence dangled over us.
Later you told me you could feel it
wrap around your neck
like the noose used on your Grandfather.
I didn’t think of that.
I called the police.
I wanted you to be okay.
The officer was kind to me.
His voice sounded like velvet.
Then, for six nights, the stars dried out my eyes.
They warned me–
‘Only the dead shine.’
You called,
finally, from Silver Hill Mental Hospital.
It was your Mother’s Bipolar Disorder that got you there.
But it was your Father’s black skin
that made the officer with a velvet voice
think it was okay to hurt you.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me
he pressed his fists into your gut
and plunged his hands around your neck.
I’m sorry, you had to send me pictures. I still can’t believe you did.
It looked like Jupiter’s rings tried to split you in two pieces.
I’m sorry that I can still drag my fingers across your scars.
I just wanted you to be okay
because I saw a life like hydrangeas and summer sunsets in your eyes.
and I remembered the elm tree where we took branches for seats and traded secrets.
And I knew just segments of your soul,
but I could see you’re bursting with a history and a story.
I just wanted you to be okay.
But he just saw a black body,
said you were a ‘dangerous madman resisting arrest.’
Inkling 