STR RAY SHO S T 2011 Editorrs: Jennie Arrcher, Kirsten n Bouthiller,, Lauren Casstaldi, Yuya K Kawahara, K Karen Laymaan, Taylor T Liebeersohn, Leylaa Mansur, KT K McVeigh,, Mary Seam man, Nellie Simmons, Daanielle Tunk kel, Craig Wy Wyszomirski Faculty Ad dvisor: Mr. B Benson
Th he Gunnery Washinggton, Conneccticut Â
CONTENTS Cover photo by Falon Moran Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi…………………………………………………………………………………………………….…1 Sonnet by Cecilia Young……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………4 Billy Button Bought a Bat by Manolo Gonzalez…………………………………………………………………………………..5 M by Wyatt Clark…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….7 Sonnet by Yakov Goliadkin by Cecilia Young……………………………………………………………………………………..8 Poem by Jon Hill…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…9 Poem by Corey Tesch…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….10 Poem by Graham Pough…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………11
photo by Falon Moran…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….13 Two excerpts from ‘The Gentleman of the Night’ by Manolo Gonzalez……………………………………………….14 The Sky I See by Yuya Kawahara…………………………………………………………………………………………………….19 Haiku by Yuya Kawahara………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..20 Luscious Frisian Fur by Jon Hill……………………………………………………………………………………………………….21 Too Long by Sam Aguirre……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….22 The Monster by Ian Riley………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..23 Freedom has a stench by Ian Riley……………………………………………………………………………………………………24 Pas de deux by Manolo Gonzalez…………………………………………………………………………………………………….25 Sonnet by Erin Sullivan…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..29
photo by Falon Moran………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….…29 The Sea of Sightless Serpents by Parrish Young…………………………………………………………………………………30 Love Poem by Zack Bodnar…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….31 Poem by Mary Seaman……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………32 Five Poems by Thom Hart………………………………………………………………………………………………………………33 Poems by Ned O’Hanlan………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..35 Poems by Karen Layman…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………36 Three Poems by Cecilia Young………………………………………………………………………………………………………..38 Three Poems by Kirsten Bouthiller………………………………………………………………………………………………….41
Jasper by Danielle Tunkel……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….42 Loving You (Sestina) by KT McVeigh………………………………………………………………………………………………46
Flanders Woods by Danielle Tunkel………………………………………………………………………………………………..47 Two Poems by Sagine Corrielus……………………………………………………………………………………………………….48
Pleasant Daze by Hugh Rinaldi………………………………………………………………………………………………………..50 Five Poems by Nellie Simmons………………………………………………………………………………………………………..51 Two Lines by KT McVeigh……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..56
Thanks to Mr. Perrella, Ms. Kjellson, Mr. Daniels, Mrs. Bucklin, Mrs. Aguirre, and Mr. Alter. For back issues of Stray Shot and English Journal (the midyear literary journal) go to http://portal.gunnery.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=260
Stray Shot 2011 is dedicated to John Alter Nature, Poetry, and all things India
Three Poems by Lauren Castaldi My Girls We marched three in a line Sipping frozen smoothie drinks Tinted tropical colors to match our vibrant bathing suits. And I can see myself in you, but I was more daring. More intrigued with my dangerous side. But your innocence is lovely And I know you play ignorant because you are smart One of the few kids who knows it’s safer to stay young More rewarding to live in youth as long as you can. I was the opposite. I tried to grow up as fast as I possibly could I thought it was better that way. And I know you remember when I hugged you in the waves Sand covering every inch of our bodies as we rolled around in the surf Now you help me hold your little sister But I keep it a secret that I hold both of you for dear life Because the pull of the waves is that strong. I put every muscle I have into keeping you from being sucked away A little girl battling the persuasion of the ocean. And although you are young for your age, you are wise. But my favorite is when you laugh, oblivious to anything else in the world but your own delight. And we walk down the sidewalk three in a line Holding hands with our shirts on and wet bathing suit butts Three blondies, my two girls in the Florida sun.
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Losing. Call me the Queen of Losing. I’m a pro. I can lose hair ties, money, wallets, socks, and shoes Earrings, brushes, clothes, homework Car keys as I’m running out the door My dog. That girl I was babysitting two seconds ago Basketball games, card games, board games. Fights, disagreements, debates Dignity, respect, self-control My train of thought, my formulating idea The disappearing images of my early morning dream I can even lose you. And none of this is even hard to do. But none have quite the magnitude of losing you. And if you want a reaction, I’ll give you a fucking reaction. I’ll yell, scream, cry and crumble I’ll give you tears with a slur of inaudible words. That ugly uncontrollable What’s-Wrong-With-Her-Face cry, too. Because silence isn’t satisfying And it’s no fun to wonder at my cold shoulder. But don’t ask to look me in the eye If you don’t really want to see. And losing myself wasn’t hard to do. In fact it was quite easy when I had you. But now I’ve lost you too. [after Elizabeth Bishop, 'One Art']
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We try too hard for that low class teenage angst Cry about every secret leak Any trust circle breach But I know you love to watch Your mistakes be talked about The center of It all Walk into room and hear the silence start to fall Because we love each other’s problems So much more entertaining than our own. And we find any reason for a disrupted mood Or self-inflicted wound We try too hard to brood Over some pathetic dude. We get attention because we whine. Over every single time I’m told I fall short of a dime Not a ten but just a nine And scrutinize over what the hell could I do to shed that image of a nine?? Surely nothing natural. I fill my empty heart with inadequate distractions Layered with false hope, knowing what I’m lacking I stare at fictional characters through disconnected screens Numbing my brain until real thoughts can leak through by any possible means And maybe I’ll imply That the real reason why We feed off other’s weakness Like some great huge swarm of leeches Is to safely hide our own So our secrets are never known But I’ll admit I laugh at others Who face the same regrets I have known I’m just a better secret keeper as I have clearly shown.
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Sonnet by Cecilia Young The love in youth is not allowed. "You can't understand," they say And though such feelings may be avowed The brightest sentiments can fade away. They talk and say that it won't last But it's jealousy, for youth is stronger And they think of ardent loves that passed Wishing they had held on longer. But youth is time for love to grow While future sparkles in bright eyes And love easily through young hearts can flow As souls form unearthly ties. Love is all we ever have, there when other things are not. Why, when found in young hearts, is it so strongly fought?
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Billy Button Bought a Bat by Manolo Gonzalez After several shots of whiskey, and about three cigarettes, Billy Button, real name William Garfield Buttonowski, of the famous Buttonowskis of Westphalia, fell asleep on his bed made from the finest cat skin in all of England, which is quite the feat considering he was in Cincinnati. You see, Billy Button wasn’t always living in Cincinnati, he was actually born in the great sprawling acres of Western Westphalia, to Eucredio Buttonowski and Incontinentia Morowitz, owners of the biggest and best fish circus in all of Europe, The Fish BM Circus. This was, of course, many years ago, during a time where animal labor laws weren’t in place and no one made a big fuss about anything, especially the circus, which were incredibly popular at the time. Their most famous act was at the end of the show, when all of the herring and cod and white fish and depending on the season, salmon, would get into a straight line and juggle tiny little ginzu knives. Well, as one can already imagine, such tricks don’t come without dangers, and one night tragedy struck. One of the herring, Fred they called him, filleted himself during the juggling finale. After that, the show never fully recovered; the audience weaned and Eucredio and Incontinentia were forced to close down their circus. That’s not to say they didn’t try their hand at opening a similarly themed cow circus, but by this time there were cow unions, and after the accident they had trying to shot a cow out of a canon, not many cows were interested, but I digress. Billy Button slept that night, in his cold, lonely, desolate, and kitsch Cincinnati apartment alone, wearing his wool pajamas with blue choo-choo trains embroidered on them, the same pair that was given to him by his grandmother, Svendska Optini, inventor of giant squeaky toys for moose. She made millions of her invention, and was even able to put her favorite moose, Robert, through medical school. The reason he was sleeping alone that night was because his wife, Castrata Poglioni, of the famous Poglioni Bacon Rope family, had left him the week before for Billy’s best friend, Patricio Mayer, son of Oscar Mayer. Castrata left Billy because according to her, Patricio Mayer had the best, and longest sausage in the Mid-West, while Billy had the wurst. This was all perfectly fine to Billy. It was an arranged marriage, set up when Billy was just a kid, and he never truly got around to liking Castrata’s moustache. The only thing that truly hurt Billy when she left was the fact that she took their dog, Albert, along with her, because now not only was he without a wife, but he was also left without someone to play cards with. Billy Button tossed and turned that night like he had never done before, and he awoke in a cold sweat, yelling for dear Mercy. Mercy, by the way, was the name of his first aquatic animal, a lobster, which also happened to be his favorite. What was the matter, he thought to himself? He served himself a little more whiskey, like any good man would, and sat down in his favorite chair, a brown leather armchair made by midgets in Morocco. He had originally bought it as a birthday present for Dr. Robert, PhD, but he liked it so much he kept it for himself. He pondered and pondered why he had awoken in such a furry. Had he had a bad dream? Was there something awful about to happen? Billy didn’t know. And the fact that he didn’t know scared him. He then tried consoling himself that since he knew that he didn’t know, he knew something which is always better than knowing nothing. Then, it dawned on him. Billy realized that his life had become stagnant, and eroded. What happened to all the dreams and promises he had made? What ever happened to that house he was going to buy in England, with the little garden for the neighboring children to play in? What ever happened to his business? That was the reason he was in Cincinnati to begin with. Billy moved there many years ago with his wife at the time, Castrata, to begin his own Multilingual, Multilateral, Binocular, Bisexual, Bicentennial corporation, as he called it. Taking a cue from his grandmother Svendska, Billy set out to invent a new toy for animals, just as his 5
grandmother had done to great success. He invented stick horses for horses. Well, at first the product really caught on and was quite the success for the first couple of years, before it all started to go downhill for him. Billy was sued by the Clydesdale Union for equine discrimination after a couple of his toys shattered under the sheer mass of a Clydesdale. Unfortunately for Billy, the Clydesdales won the lawsuit and got his business in the settlement. To make matters worse, on his way home from court Billy’s car was battered by a disgruntled boar, which had just lost his job over at the Mayer Factory. He tried to have his insurance cover it, but they dutifully pointed out that his policy didn’t cover acts of swine. In one day, Billy had lost his business, and his car, and was soon to lose everything else. So there, sitting alone in his lonely apartment, Billy Button, who had changed his named to Button from Buttonowski when he crossed through Ellis Island (Buttonowski didn’t fit on his passport), realized that his family name, once the greatest of Westphalia, as started by his GreatGreat-Grandfather, Albouster, the finest flea trainer in Europe, had in fact weaned and fizzled to a mockery. The great princes and princesses of Europe did no longer know the Buttonowski, neither by face nor by fame. No more galas nor parties; no more name recognition by the entire European moose community. So, that night, with a limp cigarette (he’d rather not talk about it), and a stiff drink in hand, Billy Button, nee Buttonowski, of the famous Buttonowskis of Westphalia, made a resolution right then and there in his choo-choo train pajamas. Billy Button would return the splendor, the vigor, the adoration of the people to his family’s name, even if it were the last thing he would do. He would bring the name Buttonowski back to greatness, and back to Europe! Billy Button packed with great vigor, taking all of his suits and shoes and belts and suspenders (as to why someone would need both a belt and suspenders, I don’t know), and socks and boxers. He packed with great haste and precision, slowing down only to carefully wrap a silver picture frame around a pair of woolen briefs so that it may not break on his great trip. The picture in the frame was of great emotional value to Billy. It was of his first love, Eleonora, his prizewinning goat. At first his parents weren’t to keen on the idea of such a union when he first told them. But after a couple of days, they didn’t mind…and after a couple of shots, neither did the goat. He called a cab as he read through his old moleskin address book. The book was special to Billy, because he used to personally know the mole, but that was a long time ago. Billy scanned through his contacts, looking for the best person to go to that will help him in his glorious quest for re-fabulousnessisation. After a couple of minutes the cab arrived, and Billy found exactly who he was looking for. The cab drove Billy to the train station, where Billy bought a one-way express ticket. Before he knew it, Billy was sitting in a train, sharing a compartment with an old Turk who smelled of smoked ham (which, by the way, used to be his wife’s favorite smell) on the way to St. Gustav, the city that never siestas, to see his cousin, Yiminy. This was all very well, except the last time Billy and Yiminy saw each other was years ago, when Yiminy discovered that Billy had been viciously mocking Yiminy behind his back to family and friends. You see, Yiminy had a Caesar complex—salad, not Julius—and had a knack for putting Parmesan cheese in his hair. But, I digress.
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M by Wyatt Clark The man creates trouble And blames it on his double. With a feeling of Isolation, Talking to people with adulation. No pity comes his way Rather they look towards him with disdain, With sadness he looks out across the bay But in his heart he still feels the pain. His other creates plight Causing him to live in fright. The doctor says he’s fine Till he starts to whine. Thus and so Mr. Goliadkin must go. [after Dostoevsky, The Double]
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Sonnet by Yakov Goliadkin c/o Cecilia Young
Thus and so, Ya. Goliad-kin Simple frame and twisting mind Scheming double in a bind It seems as though you just can’t win. Men don’t double, no it’s a sin He’s in your head you can’t unwind The good people have all turned blind From his mincing feet and twisting grin. You toss and you turn But you cannot go free Reality or dream you cannot tell But soon sweetheart you too will learn -And knowledge will come with no small feeThat it was you who created this hell.
[in the voice of our hero, Dostoevsky, The Double]
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Poem by Jon Hill
Two roads diverged in an incredibly upper-class and semi-hallucinatory wood, And long before the divergence, long we stood. This golden year or maybe more, Was probably my favorite year to date, But the micromanagement of countless details Eventually changed our fate. Some perceived rift came between these paths As a rope being drawn undone, And suddenly both of us found ourselves Angry and without the other one. From time to time these paths still cross And things are like they were, But the original “us” has long been lost And our faces again are blurs. Where are the spectacles to clarify this state, And reunite the two of us. I fear the wood has stolen them, And so stainless steel falls to rust. Run as we might and try as we could, We cannot ever escape the wood. Our paths separate, forever lost; One should heed the warning of Robert Frost.
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Poem by Corey Tesch Not amused by a stray from tradition the porch dweller sways in repetition his senses offer little more than how to survive but still he hears God offer rewards for his dried body and mind from behind echoes resonate off the walls tales told with passion become engrained as morals solitude unbearably loud opportunity nonexistent, his unforgotten ancestors provide the fields lay blank ahead of him in perfection wisps of wind and beams of sun further ground him as he hopes to one day float away
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Poem by Graham Pough reading words that came to pass hearing things in sunday mass that don’t apply to modern life that don’t hold answers to our strife and can’t tell us how to survive cause none of them are still alive so socrates is lost on me his teachings are all obsolete i need someone who talks to me not just some book that i can read i form my own philosophy based on the things that i can’t see like violence and poverty and peoples lack of sovereignty a voiceless planet searching for a leader who’s not working for the companies that govern me or somebody who wants to be a man of the people over a man of the steeple someone who appreciates the needs of the feeble who sees more to the man living off welfare and a needle. i'm the sad son of a capitalist who’s searching for my happiness in a society written by politicians and catholics who create their own editions of how we formulate opinions carry them to the grave and pass ‘em onto our children i live in a society where politicians lie to me the hierarchy's deprivin me of honesty and honestly i wanna see what’s callin but suddenly it dawns on me false knowledge like to ptolemy the universe will never do exactly what it promised me. i got a few tendencies that bother my father but when everyone depends on me to always be smarter i'd rather be friendly than make people’s lives harder and i’m truly in the search for something larger 11
i choose the path of mystics cause physics never seemed realistic i’ve studied the statistics and mortalities reality regardless of neutrality of faith we always end up the grave so what’s the point of getting praise if the end result’s the same and nobody can be saved no matter how much you pray.
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photo by Falon Moraan
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two excerpts from “The Gentleman of the Night” by Manolo Gonzalez
property of Masquerade Films EXT. UNIVERSITY HIGH SCHOOL Valentino drives his brand new, completely black Mercedes-Benz C-350, up the street along the high school. His license plate reads "Chuck". He parallel parks directly in front of the school. Teenagers of all shapes and sizes, colors and wealth are strewn about the front lawn. Some look like they belong in kindergarten. Some look as if they were forty. There are slutty girls, and nerdy guys. Goths, Emos, Indies, Scene Kids, Preppy Kids, Sloppy Kids, Gangstas, Princesses, Cholos, FOB's, and Creepers all inhabiting the front lawn. Still parked in the car, Valentino takes one swig from his silver flask and puts it in his leather messenger bag. He puts on a pair of sunglasses, and gets out of his car. He walks towards the school entrance, where he joins KLEO, TROY, and SEAN in a straight line. KLEO, 18, a pretty Caribbean girl, smokes a cigarette while wearing black Ray-Ban Wayfarers, a leather jacket, Doc Martin boots, and sports the face of a very hung-over girl. TROY, 16, looks like Cosmo Kramer's child, wearing an electric expression, bright red suspenders, neon purple t-shirt, and everything else American Apparel he could get his hands on. SEAN, a very clean cut African American boy, wears Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses along with slacks, sweater vest, and a boy tie. Kleo, Troy, Sean and Valentino make their way into the school in unison. TITLE CARD: "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE NIGHT" […] MS. STANLEY Alright, pay attention! This is Advanced Drama and Play Production. This means that you all have at least some experience in theater. This class requires a lot of commitment, and if you're not willing to do it then you will fail. Valentino takes out his Blackberry and begins texting, unseen by Ms. Stanley. MS. STANLEY (CONT'D) There is no food is the theater. No talking, no chewing gum, no hats, and absolutely no phones or texting. If I see a phone I will take it away and give it to the Dean. Absolutely no exceptions. 14
Valentino looks up for a moment, gives a wry smile to the wide-eyed new students, and continues texting. MS. STANLEY (CONT'D) I will not stand texting. It's disrespectful and I will not stand being taken advantage of. VALENTINO But I bet you'll lay down for it. Ms. Stanley and the students laugh. MS. STANLEY Stop it, you schmuck! You're gross. Go get the boombox from the closet. Ms. Stanley passes Valentino her ugly brown purse, without looking at him. Valentino takes one look at the purse and makes a "gross" face. All the students begin to laugh. Just as Ms. Stanley is turning to see what Valentino is doing to make the students laugh, Valentino pulls out a giant ring of keys from the purse and gives Ms. Stanley a smile. She smiles back, and continues on as Valentino stands up from behind the desk and walks over to a closet with a hidden door on the wall. MS. STANLEY (CONT'D) You all auditioned for me over the summer, which allowed me to cast for the fall musical. TROY What are we doing? Rocky Horror??? Please! MS. STANLEY No, Troy! VALENTINO (as he walks back, 15 Â
holding a boombox)
Cabaret. MS. STANLEY Shut up! VALENTINO But we are doing Cabaret. Last year we did Chicago, so we're continuing The Fosse, no? MS. STANLEY I know, but you weren't supposed to know! Valentino puts the incredibly dated boombox on the edge of the stage behind Ms. Stanley, plus it in using an extension cord, sits back down and throws the ring of keys into her open purse. MS. STANLEY (CONT'D) Anyway, I've already semi-cast the show. Valentino is the Emcee, and our new student, Isabella, will be Sally Bowles. Valentino and Isabella look at each other, surprised. VALENTINO (to Isabella)
Fraulein. ISABELLA
Mein Herr. He winks. TROY What about me? 16 Â
MS. STANLEY You can't sing, Troy. TROY I can! MS. STANLEY Alright, you can't sing well. TROY (distraught) It 'cause I'm black, isn't it? The school bell rings. Class is over, the students all get up incredibly fast and walk out. Only Valentino and Isabella remain. MS. STANLEY (yelling to the students as they leave) Be prepared to sing a solo tomorrow for your first grade! No exceptions! Almost defeated, Ms. Stanley turns to Valentino, who is lingering behind. MS. STANLEY (CONT'D) (whispering to Valentino) It's 9 am, and it's already cocktail time. Don't tell anyone I said that. VALENTINO Amen. Ms. Stanley grabs her purse and papers and begrudgingly walks out the side exit. Valentino approaches Isabella who is rummaging through her black backpack.
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VALENTINO (CONT'D) Hi, I'm Valentino. ISABELLA I know, and as you know, I'm Isabella. What a coincidence. How is working with her? VALENTINO Pain in the ass, but it's fun. ISABELLA You know, we went to middle school together. VALENTINO (surprised) What? You went to Emerson? ISABELLA Mhm. Isabella eyes him, and walks away. She looks over her shoulder as she is walking up the aisle, then swiftly makes her way out the door. VALENTINO (to himself) Swoon.
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The Sky I See by Yuya Kawahara In the morning, I wake up early from the cold I open the curtain and look outside Pure darkness fills the entire scene So dark that I feel frightened. I decide to sit down to study for a Micro test. When I look up, the color outside has changed The deep blue sky and the glow of sunrise How can anything be this beautiful? Time passes by and it is the afternoon I am stretching on the football field As I lie on the ground, I see the sky Blue all over My soul is washed by the purity of the sky. After a while, I am exhausted from practice It is hard to breathe Coach tells me to not look down So I stand tall and look up Again, I see the sky I feel air coming into me and flowing through my body The sky absorbs my pain And I can run again. At night, as I walk back from proctored I encounter the white moon So mysterious and beautiful it makes me sigh I go back to my room and turn off the light The moon light leaks in from the window and gently invites me to sleep
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Haiku by Yuya Kawahara I get off the plane March, but it is still snowing Will spring ever come? It`s sunny outside Come on, get your glove and bat “Let`s go play baseball!” Freezing on the bench I want to get warmer “Please, let me play…..” Winning shot outside the plate But the magic wand cuts the ball Drops between short and left. Fly ball to right field Runner on second tags up, Laser beam strikes through Silence is in the air. Slight move to the plate Light changes to green Ninth inning, score tied. I wonder which team will make The God of baseball smile Baseball is a show. Everyone is an actor Let`s go make drama I am so tired I cannot move my body Thank god, tomorrow`s Sunday
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Luscious Frisian Fur by Jon Hill Luscious Frisian fur cascades down her back as she throws her head back in what would better be described as an angel changing the feeling of happiness to sound rather than simple laughter. That happiness spreads inescapably to anyone around her, and a single glance from her eyes, like pools of molasses surrounding dark chocolate, will bring anyone out of the deepest abyss of depression. When her perfect lips form the simple crescent of a smile, forgive the cliché, but the entire room lights up. And in me it brings out an incredible mixture of happiness and longing, because even though I know she’s mine every second I’m away from her feels like forever, and then whenever I’m around her it makes up for whatever I felt while she was gone. When people stare at her as she walks by she doesn’t understand that it’s because she is perfection, she is salvation, she is the love of my life, the reason I’m failing my classes, and everything in between.
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Too Long by Sam Aguirre I’ve been walking a bit too long. My legs hurt, my feet are sore, my lips are chapped and weathered. But this is not a complaint, rather an observation. I have come to peace with being less than in perfect condition. I have come to peace with wrinkled shirts, messy hair, bristled cheek, muddy shoes, chilling breathes, darker thoughts. I have spent much of my words on complaint, expressing my discontent, feeding my sadness, but enough already This is not me. This is not my favored disposition. I declare my right to feel, to shout, to cry, to suffer, but I also declare my right to change... All you who surround me, all you who change my life, all you who help me and hurt me, I take this time to thank you, to let you know that all you do, all you say is sacred to me. If you feel my presence as I feel yours, maybe we can walk together, waste our breath on similar complaints of sore feet and cold breaths. Maybe we can come to peace with our imperfections, and kick the idle snow, and catch ourselves off guard.
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The Monster by Ian Riley Working with care, in total isolation The dead came together and became the living. He couldn’t have foreseen the terror his creation Would bring upon the caring, the giving. The monster became a lonely beast Feeling the pain of human emotion. Seeing little, he felt less than the least, And longed for the feelings of love and devotion. The beast won the attention of his creator Through murder and mischief and general plight. Acting first, and thinking later, Soul after soul lost in the night. He fled from his master into the far north: A place from which neither would ever come forth… [after Mary Shelley, Frankenstein]
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Freedom has a stench by Ian Riley Ten of them move in unison, Free to dance about. They are happy, carefree. Working together is an afterthought, A sad rarity today; But they don’t know they are rare, So they remain content. At least until their master coops them up again Like they are children, For their own “protection.” And when they are once again set free A stale odor begins to permeate…
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Pas de deux by Manolo Gonzalez Requiem
Introitus. As he lay on the floor, I stood watching over him while the blood from the wound slowly spread out over the chocolate oak planks. He wasn’t dead, of course. I made sure of that. That part comes at the end, the finale, like a crescendo in a symphony. All of the curtains in the room were open, nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. I planned it that way. Everything must be accompanied by music, like a beautifully choreographed ballet. Death too can, and will be, an act of such sublimity, such operatic splendor, that calling it a work of art would be a grave injustice. But, of course, for that to become true, it must all go along with the music. So, I stood there, silent, looking down at the beginning of my masterpiece. The room was still, almost somber and then, as planned, the strings became striking and I set out for my next movement. Dies Irae. Now the fever grew, and the darkness began to show himself. I moved the body away from its blood soaked setting and placed it on top of the wooden table. I quickly shut all the windows and curtains, and locked all of the doors. I disrobed the body down to its undergarments, and quickly searched the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers and placed the articles on top of a chair. I removed all the jewelry, also put them on top of the chair, and then I removed his shoes and placed those under the chair. I grabbed a washcloth from the basin and quickly cleaned up the blood that had been spilled. The room was still once more. Rex tremendae. The madness in me, the madness of a man fulfilling and creating such beauty, was now controlling my body the same way that a ballerina loses control over herself with Tchaikovsky. Continuing on with my black dance of death, I turned off all of the lights, leaving only the light of candles to illuminate the rest of my opus, and I poured a generous glass of Bordeaux from a splendid vintage and drank the wine. The red glass matched the rouge of the blood, as if I was drinking the man’s own, and through that, drinking in the spirit of death. Slowly, to make sure that I was going perfectly along with the score, I walked into the washroom. I looked at myself in the mirror; face somber and unmoving with red streaks of blood on my cheeks, as planned, and stared into my eyes. Confutatis. Without taking my eyes off my reflection, I reached into the drawer and pulled out my straight razor. Methodically, I stropped my instrument as a violinist tunes his. One, two. One, two. Timpani. Bassoons. One, two. One, two. The feverish violins demanded that the blade be sharp. I raised the razor up to my eyes and examined the sharpness of the blade. Alas, the moment of true artistic beauty was soon to arrive! Offertorium sanctus, what beauty and splendor will befall my legacy! With the retreat of the pulsating instruments came the calm of the vocal forces. Lacrymosa. Soprano, tenor, contralto. In that calm I paced back to where the body lay. Slowly, deliberately. My glare was fixed on that pathetic slab of flesh on my table. His breathing was getting more pronounced now, indicating that he would be awaking soon, as planned. A soloist, no matter how spectacular, needs accompaniment to achieve greatness. Unbeknownst to him, he would not only become art eternal, but he would also service me as my corps de ballet. Soprano, tenor, contralto. The time was soon to be upon us as the strings became more and more nervous. I stood over the face of the man, peering down into his twitching eyelids. By this time I was worried that he wouldn’t come to consciousness in time for the grand finale, thus ruining my masterwork. This, of course, was a chance I could not allow myself to take. For this very purpose, I had prepared myself with some smelling salts in my breast pocket. Under his blood dripped nose I waved the container. The violas began to escalate as his eyelids began to flutter. I watched as one eye slowly opened and focused on my being. As the crescendo drew upon us, the other eye flung itself open. The moment of triumph—my moment of triumph—was finally among us. My eyes pierced into his eyes. I smiled as 25
I lifted up my instrument as the music began to reach its climax. Soprano, contralto, tenor, bass, violins, trombones, bassoons, timpani, basset horns, trumpets, basso continuo! A glorious and beautiful work of sublimity and death! Amen! And then, the music stopped. Un Amor It was a glorious afternoon in Firenze when I first laid eyes on my beloved. She was holding an old wooden rosary in her porcelain hands as she walked out of Il Duomo, with bright red lipstick on her lips and nail polish to match. After my first masterpiece I had gravitated around the cathedral looking for new inspiration. Artistically speaking, this quiet Tuscan town was the ideal place for art and artists such as myself to flourish. The city once inhabited by Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci, masters of their craft, truly, would serve as nurturing mother to my art; an art that would have enchanted the world had I lived in the time when I could have the patronage of the Medicis. She walked slowly, with purpose and yet with hostility down the twisting narrow passages of the city, as moist eyeliner made a zigzag down her round cheeks. I followed her to a yellowing derelict building on the Via Ghibellina, and stood watch outside what I guessed was her window from the cobbled streets below. Several men of no particular importance or significance, especially to my art, made their way in and out of the building in timed procession. Very musical, I thought, and gave the matter no more thought. After about midnight, she left her abode and strolled down the streets with fresh tears in her eyes. Not letting such beauty pass up, I persuade the enchantress into a dim Spanish tavern, Salamanca, with wooden floors and blood red paint on the walls. Flamenco filled every corner of the room as I walked in and took a place next to her at the bar. After some persuasion and charm, of which I have an abundance, she granted me the honor of buying her a glass of the establishment’s sangria. Her bright red fingers circled the rim of the glass as she spoke; her neck bowed and twisted with every sip and clenched every time she encountered a piece of floating fruit. The sound of hidden despair rang in her voice and filtered through the room as I fixed my eyes solely upon hers. 4/4 time of the handclap began the Catalan rumba that would become our first dance as inamoratos. The guitar strings pulsed as I held her fair hand in mine; the vocalista’s heartache vibrated in her eyes, as the bongos and guiro lead our steps in time. Over the sangria I had learned nothing from her; over the flamenco, I learned everything. Un Amor. Without the utterance of words, our hearts conversed, matching a joy that perhaps only the practice of my art could match. At the end of our dance, the slightest glimpse of a smile twisted her face exposing pearl-white incisors. Her sadness captivated me, and my joy beguiled her. She glanced at the crumbling clock on the wall and announced to me that she had to return home for a previous engagement. I lead her back to her home on the Via Ghibellina that night, hearing her steps click to the beat of our shared flamenco. Before she went in for the night I caught another glimpse of her pearl-white incisors pronouncing the resolution that we should rendezvous again soon. She went inside and I took up my spot under the gas lamp which limply lit the pathway, and watched at her window. A small man wearing a waistcoat much too small for his bulging stomach entered the palazzo sometime after she did, which made me ponder if perhaps he was her previous engagement. I then started to ponder who my next artistic subject would be.
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Symphony no. 25 I had continued to practice my art most dutifully, garnering about three or four subjects every other fortnight. My art, as well as my heart, were swelling to the most sublime depths, like the strings in a symphony. It was a most exciting time, what with my studies at the conservatory and love blossoming in the stagnant Tuscan wind. During the mornings I would dive into the melodious sublimity of instrumentation, and in the afternoons I would relinquish all thoughts and put forward all of my available attention to her, my swan queen. We would spend the hours in a state of pure ecstasy. Whether it was love or lust, I dared not press my advantage past that of pure courtship, with hopes of marriage in the near future, of course. It was a delight watching her eyes spill fewer and fewer valuable tears. In fact, I believe that after that first night she never spilled tears at all. It was not only I who had done that, but the music that pulsed through my veins, the frequency of which penetrated her bones. My hidden art was, of course, a touchy subject. Although I wished to show her my masterpieces, I could not be persuaded to believe that she had the capacity to fully understand such crowning artistic achievement. So, I didn’t. It was, shall we say, exciting to my person and my art to harbor these glorious achievements. It made it all the more fulfilling knowing that while she went home in the evenings to take care of a dying aunt, I was out, making art for the whole world to relish. To keep such a fantastic secret from an innocent girl who had no secrets was both terrifying and wonderful; forbidden, in a most titillating way. There can be no love without deceit. This little knowledge in my mind helped me through a great burst of artistic output. As if in a procession, one after another after another would fall to my instrument, with the same care taken each time. As a violinist, my arm would race back and forth across not strings, but the neck of artistic vigor. I was a factory of pure, unembellished art, and my own god. This spur allowed me to take a chance in performing my greatest and grandest piece. I entered into a rather large disagreement with my most mediocre maestro, and my fellow colleague who acted as more of a lapdog for him. I decided that I would save them from their own mediocrities, and do them the favor of allowing them to become immortalized in art. Doing this, of course, required some planning, as I was dealing with two subjects this time. On the first day I bound and gagged my colleague in my apartment, and held him sequestered in my boudoir. Luring him into my flat was no large feat, as all it took was the weak promise of sambuco. My professor, the mediocre maestro, was a bit harder to reel in, naturally, as he actually used his mind to think, and not to follow, like my colleague. I had figured out that the man was fond of the many fallen women that plagued our fair town. So, I offered to host a night of musical discussion accompanied by drink and ladies of his choosing, a custom of young bachelors. Knowing that, as he was the proud owner of a faulty memory, he wouldn’t remember to make such a call to a woman, I jotted down the address of my domicile on the Via Antonio Alfieri on a thick sheet of parchment and handed it to him. The next evening I awaited him dutifully, wearing my best waistcoat and breeches, as I sat in my study with my colleague bound in the next room. When he arrived, we chatted about Brahms and Bach and then, once he was filled with vino rosso and limoncello, I began my latest masterpiece. So grand a piece required an act as bold as leaving my front door unlocked, which I did, and began 27
to prepare the two men, laying side by side on my large oak table, by disrobing them and sharpening my instrument. [Mozart, Requiem; Leoncavallo, Vesti la giubba; Gypsy Kings, Un Amor; Tchaikovsky, Danse des Cygnes; Mozart, Symphony no. 25; Puccini, Nessun dorma; Tchaikovsky, Nutcracker scene 14]
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Sonnet by Erin Sullivvan The way you feel wheen love touch hes your heaart. The way a dove lookss against the bright blue sky. s But it’s allso like beingg frightened in the dark, No way out o but you still s scream and cry. It’s so eassily described d as a lovely walk in the park p When in n fact that piccture is mostlly a lie. Love everyone and evverything thee lovebirds hark h But to me it seems so ometimes I’d d rather die. And on the t rare occaasion I feel seentimental I usually get discouragged and provved so wrongg. oing cycle caan drive a perrson mental — The ongo Being cau ught up in th he lovers thro ong, Waiting by b the phonee for that nevver-arriving call, c For the voice v of love sounding lik ke an angel’s song. It never comes c and itt never will. The hopees, ever so high, h will be dropped d As thouggh off a seven nty-story wind dow sill. Do I get up or should d I just stop?? I think th hat maybe a break b is whatt’s in store Because I can’t take this t heartbreak any moree.
photoo by Falon Moraan
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The Sea of Sightless Serpents by Parrish Young The piety of one who rules Is punctuated by a throng of fools Who babble about with serpent tongues Persecuting the righteous ones Who answered the call of sword and steel Who worked their hands raw for every meal I am the one who rules The man who swims in the sea of fools Gently though, I do not thrash or flail For I know the mind, spirit, body I know how soft and supple skin is How brittle bones can be My heart thumps like my mind Vivid and real for all to see As I patiently sit atop my throne I finally am free Free to breathe and navigate the sea Because when I come ashore There is only me
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Love Poem by Zack Bodnar Forgive me, and my awkwardness my insecurities, my timidity Because they hide me in clouds like the sky has never dreamed of except in the worst of thunderous nightmares. Forgive me, unknowing hand that pushes us along whose serpentine path treads the lukewarm river For wanting to finally break that single extended finger and show this world that I have finally found deep faith. Forgive me, wounded soul in my wake drenched in the blood of lust Bringing forth the image of a martyr whose only goal is to subvert this angelic promise of eternal ecstasy. Weakness Am I? No! Strength‌ So much strength I just needed to believe a little And see what has happened to my face already! Smiles bring forth happy smiles; I bask in the delight of color. This is a new world order, one which beckons the questions of hands to be asked; Marching forward, my own hand outstretched, I have the courage to do what I once killed. Forgive me, for this one final act. where two people finally meet And one asks the other to a dance known as eternity, and the lord’s finger finally relaxes and drowns in his river. Will you dance? my ally in love.
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Poem by Mary Seaman I sit gazing at my window not really moving lazy? Some may think so. Exhaustion? Well I think so. The birds are talking to each other the sun is out allergies are developing Maybe I’ll go out later Maybe for a jog who really knows. It’s Spring. Let it be.
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Five poems by Thom Hart Modern Art We are monkeys We make things Shiny things We look at them Epiphany.
Class in the garden I sit. The dampness of The earth below me The persistent knocking Of the woodpecker The ambient noise of Cars. Sunshine. Nice. Very nice. My black Nehru blazer absorbs, Sponges heat from Rays. Brilliant. I shall Seek shade.
Moon Dream I dreamt a dream It did not seem To be a dream But a pale moon beam The light beneath My closed eyes.
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Identity I do not know who I am Do not try to help me Do not define me, Stereotype, or prescribe To me Some sort of form I am shapeless And do not know What I look like I do not know who I am Do not try to help me.
Gray Gray. I wonder what it sounds like. Rain muted by fog Heavy clouds, a cold breeze Drizzle, sleet, freezing rain A snowy day. All of these are gray.
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Poems by Ned O’Hanlan Now and then What matters now won't matter then The name I love now will be different then My thoughts now will change then What hurts me now will strengthen me then Who I am now I will not be then Mine My consciousness is my own My intent to experiment is my choice I can fly if I want to I can also crash
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Poems by Karen Layman Riddles of the Fox Demon Fox Demon 1: The more you take, the greater I grow The more you replace, the quicker I go What am I? Fox Demon 2: You see me in the water. You see me in the glass. On the edge of a fine dagger, In an instrument of brass. What am I? Fox Demon 3: Dusk and dawn, I follow you Shorter, taller, often askew— What am I?
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A Thousand Steps to the Skies
This is the riddle that Thylian gives you to get to Taran’s domain—Skyes. Taran and other divinities can simply Relocate themselves there—mortals like Min’hira are not so lucky. Since Thylian doesn’t give a straight answer to anything, for anything, the party was stuck solving (and Tei was stuck writing) something that begins like this: For what you seek, Look to the skies. When the moon sets blue, So shall you have what you need. “But I alone cannot impart The power that thine mortal hearts Doth need to venture to lands in light And step out of eternal night.” That was what I was instructed to say For wise, were my mentors, And knew that there would come a day When your kind would need to pass beyond The shores of where Darkness is bound. Four things you need, One from me, Strong souls, A beginning, And two blessings be.
…I told you Thylian wouldn’t give you a straight answer for anything.
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Three Poems by Cecilia Young everything tonight is moonlit even each word that crosses my mind and the clouds which glow as they pass over are lit demurely from behind a silver film is cast upon each bush and blade of grass alike and the empowered river rushes by below the great eye of the night perhaps that sound is the star river which flows endlessly and gently through time and its tide recedes at each daylight to swell again when the silver orb is bright but tonight it is at its brightest and silver coating every branch lighting the sky with great fervor and casting its beams across the land how can the heaviest of eyes rest when light like this soaks the earth why are they not drinking of its purest bliss its serene spirit and softening glow? if it is so easily unnoticed then i will have it for myself this mother of pearl carving of perfection will be my personal pool of reflection and we shall stare at each other’s faces but at the same time back at our own and we will not perceive any great distance for even behind a cloud the light touches my skin and dresses me in the same silver which the white pool wears nightly as i gaze in into my own dirtied reflection made pure only by shimmering rays which extinguish hatred and dejection replenishing and purifying, radiating love. night is no cloak but a mere canvas for the luminescent artist to silently cover with spirit water of silver and ivory white flowing from the fountain of love's purest light for any moon pilgrim to cleanse her soul.
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Why must you run? Your senses go numb You need that high So you can hide It's never beautiful enough Dull your senses til the sun comes up Your problems won’t go away Images distort your brain What is it that you hide from? What on earth will you become? Back to earth, how do you feel, High or low, none of it’s real When the time comes will you know Or will life waste, lose its glow You see, you won’t be the same Only have a similar name But even that won’t mean a thing Get that fix, the buzz, the sting Crazy nerves and hungry head Who you were is almost dead How will you ever find yourself? Just one more trip? That won’t help This confused age clouds your eyes But you can’t always be on cloud nine Come back to me, come back home I am yours and yours alone Is it that feeling you want and need? I’ll be your addiction, you will see Laugh and show that beautiful smile No one’s seen since you were a child
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Let it mist Blinded by fog Turn the sky into a bog Let it drizzle Soft and smooth Pitter patter like horses’ hooves Let it rain Strong and steady The clouds are looking much too heavy Let it pour Bring on the rain It washes away all the pain Let it flood Rivers flow high They will pour back to the sky. Butterfly, open your wings! Your colors have a song to sing — A song unheard in dark of night So regale the world while it is light! See the blazing sun it sets And water calmly reflects The last few rays of fading light Giving way to growing night. Something about the first sunny day Stirs the storm cloud heart When the first blooms touch the hills No rain can make a day too gray. The sky smiles at her reflection on the water With cottony clouds framing her face And the breeze tickles branches of trees Taunting them to sprout their leaves The sun will beam warmly down On this day and many others But this day, this day is special Because it is the first.
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Three poems by Kirsten Bouthiller After their early evening nap, my children Rise to the smell of fresh baked pie Yelling out flavors “Strawberry!” “Meat!” “Blueberry!" A hushed smile crosses Molly’s lips as she walks out to the garden From the kitchen sink window, I observe her looking to the sky As she sings to herself “Good Lord, take me home…” The wind quietly replies “this is your home.” Luke spots her and out run the other two children To join her with their eyes to the sky The timer buzzes as I shout “Time for pie!” So the children will come in from the garden Only to hear them sniff and say, “Ahh, blueberry.” I smile, so pleased and think to myself “ahh, blueberry.” While Natey asks about Daddy coming home -I hesitate, but tell him he’s the most beautiful rose in the garden He’s unsatisfied by the answer, but they’re only children Munching merrily on their fresh baked pie Briefly, I excuse myself outside and look to the sky Just for a moment I look away, now torn from the sky And return to my senses to the aftertaste of the sweet blueberry As I imagine a different home With fathered children -I admire my most beautiful rose in the garden Ryan yells from the house “Mommy, come back from the garden!” I meander a moment, gazing to the sky Then hustle in to comfort my children Who sit covered in blueberry And think to myself “this is home” Then dish out more pie This is our tradition, Friday night pie As we listen to the crickets in the garden In this place we call our home Admiring the aging sky With the taste in our mouths of fresh baked blueberry Sharing a memory with my children Their hearts as large as the sky
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Cheeks smeared with h purple blueeberry As I think k to myself “These “ are my m children… …”
Jasper by Danielle Tuunkel
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Within Dreaming Little things recall us to Earth Like awakening in the depths of the night The brilliant shine of the stars Freckling the ever expansive universe Beauty booming Beckoning with her nightly songs To his breath on my neck, His arm wrapped tight around my waist Like when reality turns her cheek And the sky turns a dark, ominous grey Swallowing up the fiery sun’s Lustful shine And dementia takes over Swiftly as a morning’s bird takes flight Into the passing hours But the buzz of the alarm Wakes me from my quiet dreaming It’s the little things which recall us to Earth
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Dear Dad, Just in case you ever wonder, I’m doing alright. My grades are decent, Sean is good, and hockey is hockey. You know how that goes. Well, I still don’t like that singing teacher. But don’t get the wrong impression. I’m being good. Quiet. I swear, I don’t say a word unless she speaks to me. I decided that singing like a man is the only way to please her and it seems to so far. You know, it’s weird, Dad. This life, this everything. Sometimes I think it’s great. Everything is just working itself out. But this time, I don’t know. I will never truly know. But what if there is more to all of this? What if I make the wrong choice, or fail? Or fall and can’t find the will to get back up... Will you lend me your hand? You once made a promise to me that you would saying that you will always love me. always hug me. always be on my side. And you wanted me to know that… just in case I ever wonder. I do wonder sometimes, as I stare out into the depths of space, if you mean it. If you mean each and every word that you have promised me. How do you know that you will always be by my side? What if the distance is too great and I somehow lose touch? What then, will we do? There are so many questions, Dad. So many that you seem to know the answers to. 44
And how can you be so sure? Why can you see this great destiny while all I see is the uncertainty between my shifting toes? And just in case you ever wonder, I never go a day without you here. Each choice, memory, and each run, you are there. Do you remember... do you remember my first cross country race? I ran so hard but wore myself out by the second lap and yet, you ran next to me the whole time. You told me I could do it. And I did. Look at me now, Dad. Look at how fast I am. How smart, tall, strong, and how much like you I am. And you told me to stand by my convictions and I’m doing just that. You told me that I’m a writer and I could write the world into a better place. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. If you believe it, maybe I can. And just in case you have ever wondered, Dad, I will always love you. Love,
Boo
Congratulations to Kirsten, winner of The Gunnery poetry contest 2011, judged by David Hinton
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Loving You (Sestina) by KT McVeigh I love You. Letting go Is the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do. I feel like I’m putting you to sleep. I’m euthanizing my dreams. My daydream, My love, Is falling asleep Next to you And waking up whenever we do With no other places to go Because we feel no need to go. We awake from our dreams (I before you do to steal seconds of free love) And I turn on my side and see you And it is as though I am still asleep. When you go to sleep Having ended our conversation hours ago Do you Ever dream That we are in love? I wonder if you do I do Sometimes I only sleep So I can feel that love That is where I go So real in my dreams I can almost be with you But it isn’t true. You Are so far away from me, do You understand how distant a dream It really is? A night’s worth of sleep On a plane across the universe we’d go For love At least, I dream that you And I will meet and fall in love, do 46
You belieeve it too? Or O content wiith sleep do you y go? I Can’t. Congratulaations to KT, winner w of The Gunnery’s G recita tation contest, 22011
Fllanders Wood ds by Daniellee Tunkel
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Two Poems by Sagine Corrielus To Renaissance: The changes within me hold no boundaries, a mesh pot of harsh crimson and a semi-permeable caramel, with little freckles and moles to initiate personality. My daunting figure grows separating me from the cusp of the cushion of adolescence, merging me into the strange unknown annex of a new epoch. A simulation of colors hovers through the air. My mind is one with my limbs and my limbs are at two with my mind. Anxiety courses through my veins serving as a catalyst for stimulation. Energy has a whole new meaning, for I am energy. Beautiful, happy and blissful energy, filled with hope and reverence. Hope for the future and reverence for the past on which I have subsisted; The bygone I waded through awkwardly uncertain of a new distinction. Except now the distinctions and differences are welcome in my heart, my soul, my breath. The boundaries, gates, locks and keys have dispersed into another life of an unwelcoming 13-year-old. The beginning of the end for some, the succession of a new for the clever. My arms reach up to grasp the rotund handle bar as I kick my feet off the platform. I leap, I swing, then fly.
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To Patience You are a virtue which many do not have, which I do not have. Waiting and waiting as the tiny clock ticks away the time we have left. Thus, your lack drives me crazy. Making me wonder, making me think. And in your absence, I am a stone cold wind of fury. Capable of demolishing anything in my path. A soft silent yearning, a harsh summer’s heat, an ungraceful Giselle. I am everything and nothing all at once, each tiny discrepancy causing me unrest. But really who am I to deny your healing, gracing me with your prowess. Your keen sense of stability conducting me away from the wind, the destruction, the self-loathing, the hate. And into the soft, quiet, maudlin center of a thousand lullabies, making me want. Yearning for the calm, I am everything and I am nothing. A flame slowly extinguished, with a deep sense of profound knowledge and prudence. Relaxing and Relaxing, drifting into the cool blue light. Relaxing…relaxing… relaxing…
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Pleasant daze by Hugh Rinaldi Nature all around me, Putting me into a confusion. Around me is a bird, a tree, it seems like an illusion. I’ve never felt this way before, So held up in solitude. Happy with nature’s decor, Yet nothing really seems to protrude Into my sight irritating my vision Or changing my mindset at this time, To make me have much indecision. This could put my foot path out of rhyme. I turn a corner and find myself in a different area, Step after step I find myself in a heavy haze, I can’t turn around now to fight the hysteria, I’ve just gone too far into a pleasant daze.
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Five Poems by Nellie Simmons Pit the music sways my body the bass line controls my heartbeat the lights go down, my voice goes up, and the insanity of the pit catches my eyes, pulls me in like a fish on a rod and suddenly i'm a bumper car of power pure 5 foot 110 pounds of power vs the mass of rocking bodies they're 6'2, 160, and i'm throwing them across the circle and i'm here, and i'm there and i'm everywhere all at once, lights and spinning and thumping bass lines and as the crowd begins to sing along, i am free but i am complete adrenalin and i am home i can feel this is where i'm meant to be and soon enough the sanity of the insane and the music that calls to my heart and rocks my body will bring me back into the pit again.
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Aftermath of the Opera i wrote a song today i wrote it in my head for you if you believe in that sort of thing. but otherwise, my body just spins slowly, slowly in opposing directions as the lights slowly flicker and fade behind dimly lit eyelids. and this poem refuses to let me sleep despite my feeble attempts (coffee, a mango, some chocolate) my haze filled mind still screams SLEEP. everything is a dull roar and hushed voices murmur in the background. i do my best to ignore them and remain trying to sleep, try to quiet my mind for once in my life but to no avail as city streetlights, gregarious buildings and sun-kissed skylines flash through my mind and invade my subconscious i have nearly given up on this concept of sleep but my eyes fall to half-mast slowly first, and then slower still all the way shut. perhaps i am so lucky. we shall see.
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Dear Friend, I hate to break this very sad news to you but here, let me hit you over the head for just a little bit, for only A minute, please kid. you, my friend, are not always right. As a matter of fact, you are blatantly wrong on both (and all) accounts Of points you have made today. See, it’s really an hour and a half at minimum- we checked it. and believe it or not, the Corps originates from Navy: NCIS NAVAL Criminal Investigative Service. I would know- I’ve looked it up. And see, it wouldn’t even bother me that you are wrong, except for this fact: you refuse to believe someone else is right And you are wrong, nor do you argue your point. Just continue to not agree. To avoid major confrontation, I just walk Off but then you chase after me, asking, “What’s wrong?” Want to know it? The question is not “What”, but is “WHO”, and the answer, my friend IS YOU.
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maybe three tankas. this is starting to get really freaking weird, right? i know, i know, i know, i pay far, far too much attention for eighteen years. i'm bashing my head against a wall or maybe a tree. there's more of them around here anyway, trying to avoid my thoughts. i don’t know how things got to be this way with you and me. you were just there and i sort of fell apart waiting for you to see me.
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untitled, undated my flesh is at war with my soul my skin twitches and jumps like a soldier who keeps hearing the bombs in his head like they're real even when they are not. meanwhile my soul begs to stretch its legs to run long, fast and hard or maybe even just an easy breeze like a racehorse in the start gate waiting to fly.
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two haikus about first graders small children are odd their attention spans are, to be honest, quite short. i don't think i have smiled this hard in quite a long time. i love it.
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Two lines by KT McVeigh I hate being so inspired and having nothing to say Because for the first time in my life, things are finally going okay
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