The leaves have gone, animals left shaking. Bitter wind’s howl left flowers frosted white, Persephone gone to Hades’ taking. Demeter mourns, left alone with frostbite.
Recalling a time of brilliant heat, A season brimful of aquatic bliss, I shed a tear for I feel incomplete. My sanctuary has received death’s kiss.
Wading through shore, wet earth between my toes, I watch as the fish scatter from my heel. Now, summer come to end, the fish have froze, Belly-up, shining bright like polished steel.
A season’s sobbing, one of pure sorrow, Has left me yearning for my summer zing. I peer out the window, think of morrow, And see that spring has given breath to birds’ wing
My Broken Jacuzzi Kennedy McMillon
Everyone has their own little jacuzzi. It’s a place to go and unwind after dark. It’s a place of comfort. It’s a place of relaxation Where you escape the burden of reality And feel refreshed and rejuvenated The next morning.
So, why isn’t mine working?!
I mean, it sort of works. It bubbles like a normal jacuzzi; It does its job. But comfort? Relaxation? Rejuvenation? That’s where mine falls short. It’s always too hot or too cold It makes loud noises It’s far from rejuvenating And most of the time, it’s generally uncomfortable. No matter how much time I spend, I can’t relax And if I spend too much time, I feel prune-y and gross.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
I’ve tampered with the jacuzzi controls, I’ve tampered with my environment By setting it to music, adding some lavender scents But nothing is working. And whenever the jets do begin to whir And the water does begin to bubble I can’t escape the burden of reality And am instead plagued with the horrors My own head.
I don’t know what’s wrong with my jacuzzi Or how to fix it. And the longer it stays broken with no hope of fixing it The more tired I feel.
An Ode to My Secret Hiding Place by Zoe Brazell
Oh secret hiding place, Buried deep within the woods. Full of hidden wonders, And mysterious, fruitful goods.
Unlike any seen before, Beauty beyond compare. Fueling my youthful bliss, A world free of care.
Secluded from reality, Where imagination thrives. A place of isolation, Which the world often deprives.
You gave me independence, My own sense of power. Allowed my mind to run wild, Creating, hour upon hour.
I give my thanks to you, Oh secret hiding place. For the memories you gave me, My lovely, sacred space.
Dark Gray Matter by Mia Perry
Ahhhhh!!! I’ll climb to the top and sit there forever there’s no escaping my mind. I wish you’d leave me alone sometimes, But you follow me wherever. Overlapping. Spiraling. An explosion commotion Repetitive yet fleeting. Simultaneous and all at the same time, Is that the same thing? Oh, this paranoid android This burden of mine!
The Nail by Nathaniel Poynor
As it stands in proud defiance Of its user- and his clients, Of this builder- waiting, planning, Of the table, not yet standing,
The nail aligns itself just so That when the hammer deals its blow It will- as if by drink impaired -For this the builder can’t prepare- Slump down at an angle so removed From its intended course that you, The reader can imagine now Will cause the builder to question how It was he came across this nail Which spat upon him in denial Of its purpose, use and goal, Which was, as you will now recall To build a table, strong and true, With nails, not utilizing glue, But now the builder sees a field Within his mind, and it does yield The grazing for some four- legg’d beasts A cow, a horse- and to the east -Within the mind of the builder done With disobedient nails- does run A railroad track towards a factory gray Where beasts go in and there they stay By tens, by twenties and by legion To be made useful for adhesion. The builder turns, in minds eye, towards The field, and offers haunting words: Since nails I trust from now no longer And glue is often even stronger, I may within the future near Seek out the service of that steer.
Epigrams by Emma Fabry
Epigram I Trees are avenues But few wanderers endeavor to pursue Such challenges as defying the very laws That permit the wanderer's existence at all
Epigram II Branches are choices that veer From the mainstream they deviate And at times, completely divaricate Making one's direction ever unclear A multitude of ways trees do provide But only is this visible to a naive eye Others, to trees pay no mind For they only see the prosperity through the grapevine
The Record of Time by Matthew Ployhart
The record, on its morning, spins; The tune of music soon begins: It seems as it may never end, One song after another, forever in trend.
Some are happy, and bring upon the witness joy fond of; Their wooing tune: a welcoming, to pride and hope and love. These moments are sincere, a time of lasting peace, The embrace of the sound, one we never wish to cease!
But alas, as all good ends, there comes a time of hate, And the dreadful tune created, pulls you into darkest fate. Regrets start to come back to, and old horrors arrive; The memory of love and peace, is seldom to survive.
That the song will end soon, is always reassured, But scratches on the disk, makes this prophet never heard. And so it will repeat, time and time again, But no one can change this, no matter how much we pretend.
Yes, the needle could be moved off the surface of the disk But the assumption’s always made that someone else will take this risk. Why should you leave the sofa, if no one else will try? We all assume we are alone, and thus the joy will die.
And it never stops repeating, the music never ceases, And so it will continue, till all life is in pieces: It will not stop until it breaks, or power flees the home, And come this end, will surely mean, all sacrifice their own.
Thoughts by Prosperity Davis
Love is not just an emotion. It's powerful. It's damaging. It´s wonderful. Love comes in different forms. Good and Bad. Love can hurt you more than a harmful drug because love is that harmful drug. Love can mend a broken heart or break a mended one. It's a great feeling but only at that moment. That moment when you feel like nothing can go wrong. That moment where you think ¨This is the one.¨ Love is projected in different ways: the love for family isn't the same as love for a stranger. That stranger becomes your safe place, your diary, your everything. Love is going to be worse when it's just you loving when it's just your effort just you trying. It's going to be worse when you're still loving and can't let go but it's over. You have to heal. Those tears that beam down your face showing the pain, showing the relief of that love that is no longer between two. You're so hurt. But you're glad. But you're also mad. Love is tricky. So tricky that really you just wanted that attention.
You took any love you could get bad or good and held on to that. Love isn't meant to be perfect but it's not meant to be hurtful. Love can damage you mentally. I think some don't realize that. Hearts are fragile and should be handled with care. Not being treated like toys not being smashed to pieces with that hammer you call your love because that love is toxic. It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel that pain, but most importantly, its okay to deal with that hurt to allow yourself your mind your soul to heal. With time everything will be fine.