Poetry

By Bill Wilson

 

A scary figure owning an evil eye
and bent neck, 
enters unseen without a sound. 
The lethal predator creeps in under cover
of early morning mist.
Furtive, a lurking danger for all
who carelessly wander close.
Edge dweller, solitary hunter,
hidden in plain sight.
Pointed dagger honed to strike and kill
with a single lunge.
Stoic. Focused. Patient.   
A sudden breeze tickles his gray beard
and the little spit of black atop his head.
Yellow eyes blink a split-second warning   
of certain death.
With his victim, he rises 
in deliberate slow-motion flight,
and disappears into the pewter sky.

By Hannah McAvoy

 

I look out the window,
watching leaves shake and shiver.  

They should make music,
should jingle and chime under 
the wind's spell, stem and flow. 
 
As I watch,  
I can hear their bell tones
an unpredictable melody. 
 
Note by note, I watch them fall. 
 
A caesura. 
 
The trees sway nakedly 
groan a lonely harmony
awaiting spring again.  

To an empty song
as snow ambles from the sky. 

By Gabriel Lyra

 

Lucid sweet dreams staring at me through my bathroom’s misty blurred mirror
soft dreadful lips kiss my epidermis, nerves feel electric discharges all over my
disorganized long spine, rounded hips guide my lower back like a mentor
lecturing symphonies designed by Mozart’s own fingers, a beautiful lie
sings dark lyrics to my ears while my conscience is lost in a play of
desirable lustful sex, nails claw my chest like wolves devouring canines
licking some death more from the remaining bones and flesh from a dove.

Sharp dopamine lifts my spirit as my limbs are being carried by vines
durable like snake’s second skin, loud moans give my neck hair goosebumps
lively satisfying delusional sensations, my mind is flying through the dense pink
skies dilapidating lights from the beautiful end of the world when an intense flash jumps
dazzling lavender sirens in front of my eyes as they involuntarily blink
love suddenly dies as I am back to reality and face a ghost looking at me in the glass
scared despairing lonely man he is indeed, now that his imagination has come to pass.

By Jessica Jordan

 

I have dreams, big dreams, 
to live on a tropical island, 
where I’d eat peaches, mangos, and pineapples
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 
I'd live in a bungalow on the beach,
with an outdoor shower lined with
emerald tiles that glisten when the 
sun beams down on them. 
An open kitchen, with those same 
emerald features and wooden shelves
surrounded by flourishing plants.
A welcome mat full of sand,
a shoe rack lined with sandals,
and a wardrobe overflowing with bikinis.
I’d bathe in the sun, soaking up the rays.
My skin would glow, tan and soft. 
I’d create art all day, paintings, drawings,
and writing journals packed full of poetry. 
At night, I’d play my records on full volume,
pour a glass of rosé, and 
stand in the spotlight of the moon
and watch the ocean wave goodnight. 
But dreams are funny and reality hits hard
that I am rotting away in my hometown.

By Abby McCullough

 

Hanging vines
Summer sweat
Barefoot on the smooth bumps of cobblestone
Two weeping mulberry bushes took up the front yard

Two brothers fabricate our childhood adventures
One was gnarled and had knobs to climb into the jungle scenes
The other stood tall and had a perfect perch-branch for our spy stakeouts
Early July is mulberry season

I can remember a day I ate too many berries
My hands and Easter dress: stained purple with shame
But my mouth was stained indigo with naïve curiosity
Mulberries are a natural laxative, I learned that day

We used to play Badminton between the trees 
Tying the net between the two fantasy worlds we created
We’d use the rackets to swat the wood bees under my grandmother’s porch
By the middle of the month mulberries were gone to birds passing and snacking