Poetry

The day after things changed

It rained buckets

Bubbles floating across mirrored puddles

 

I woke in grey violet

And left my dreams in a hurry

A flurry of heartbeats

Racking the dreary room

 

I took a drag through the rain

To count my words

 

To spread

Water from the

Crease of my cheek

The bridge of my nose

 

A silent story of sorrow

 

I warmed a can of

Salty metal soup

Til it hissed at the corners and

Overflowed the bowl

Cloudy liquid growing cold

As it clung to my throat

 

I could not stand

Inside my skin

I could not stand my head

 

Through years

Of shifting loss

The same prayer flags still

Drip from my doorframe

 

Still tangle on the synapses

That lie between wake and dream

 

May I never settle

May I always have a song to sing

 

 

 

Maya Rabinowitz is a sixteen-year-old lover of music and avid reader of anything poetic. She lives in Philadelphia, PA, in a quiet neighborhood with her two moms and her dog Ollie. She spends much of her free time writing, and her work has also been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

 

After I die,

I will wander the world

the way I’ve always wanted to,

see the cherry blossoms in DC

and the broken ground of the Berlin Wall

and the barren earth of the DMZ

where the voices but not the souls of the others gone

linger.

 

And eventually

I will tire of the earthly things

that tower but do not speak.

Somehow I’ll find my way back home,

where I’m sure my grandmother will be waiting

sunlight warming the joints that no longer ache

watering her aloe plants

and a bowl of my favorite fried rice on the table.

 

 

Melody (Mel) is a high school junior from New Jersey. She has been writing poetry for about two years and has won a number of awards, including bronze in the NJCTE competition and a gold key in Scholastic Art and Writing. When not procrastinating and worrying about her upcoming exam, Mel reads, sings, and volunteers in and with her school (PS: her favorite ice cream flavor is Ben and Jerry’s  “The Tonight Dough with Jimmy Fallon).

How pathetic is it

I think over black coffee taken alone

That I belong to perhaps the only sub-culture

Of the Homo Sapiens species

That begins to cry when I catch a glimpse of my sun-tanned chest in the car mirror

Because my collarbones no longer protrude like some injured wing of a broken songbird

But are now hidden, more soft, the angularity more subtle under a layer of cushy flesh

Why is it that I find magnificence in the sharp lines of the combination of collagen and calcium

Which very protrusion I find sickening on the stray mutts that wander the street

How repulsive is it

That I find strength in what nature intends as a symbol of human weakness

 

 

Emily Wolst is an undergraduate English student at Lakehead University in Orillia, Ontario. She enjoys writing poetry and short creative fiction pieces. Her work has appeared in several local newspapers. She works part-time in a public library and spends her spare time reading both fiction and non-fiction and drinking hot coffee.

 

 

 

Humming at the riverside, city across the waves hanging low

Lights stabbing across the thrashing water to slip shadows under our feet

Where they, teacher-eyed, observe our dancing and stalk us

 

We cause sand to leap out the way, feet stomping manic

To the intense chorus of acutely heated wind down wine bottles

 

Smoke couldn’t keep up with us all night and so wanders home

Some bearing a distinct scent that sends trees tutting

Ash diving to the sand where it rests, unfolding into nothing

 

Bodies sprawl on rocks and sand and blankets, floating

Burning so vital, those webs of pounding flesh and sounding veins

Throbbing, afraid of skin that might scorch them, but adventurous

 

Those ungifted with a human crutch wobble on,

Sticking to the corners in defensive huddles, cackling

Arms building platonic shields to avoid repeated scars

 

Moon attacks with full frontal nudity, no clouds-modesty is dull

As stars hang back at the dancefloor’s edge, drinks sipped tenderly

 

Humming at the riverside, we beat a clunky tune into the ugly hours

We are a nuisance, attacking the sea as it tosses and turns, trying to sleep

But summer brims over and we are sipping from the cup

Which floods so sticky onto our vibrant skin

 

 

Peter Beattie also goes by Moth, a product of their gender identity crisis. Crises, usually self-caused, are a recurring theme in their life and work, of which this is the first published example.

 

Almost 20,

Baking pasta into

Zucchini

Gracefully

Moves through the kitchen, a bird

Of glasses and spoons

 

Newly 16,

Helping her wash the

Silverware

Carefully

Stands at the sink, a cricket

Of dreams and questions

 

I have these

Thoughts-unfathomable

In this kitchen

(It’ll be okay)

You’ve seen the world and I-well

I’ve seen Hamilton

You’ve never

Minded naivete

Wondering

Anything

I wear like blazers. I have

Always been your child.

 

Moira Armstrong is a junior at Howland High School, where she enjoys stressing over honors classes and extracurriculars. Her favorite is the speech and debate team, where she competes in original oratory and serves as president. In her very limited free time, she likes to volunteer, color, and, of course, write. Her work has also been published in the Power of the Pen Book of Winners and Creative Communications Poetry Collection.

Ruckkehrunruhe

 

I forgot

how the hot, sticky wind of

a hundred passing metro buses and jeepneys

felt on the shins–

the pleasant aching of feet

at the edge of a crosswalk–

when my legs were swept up

by the velvet lining

of a living room recliner.

 

I lost

the New Orleans roar–

the steam of a fresh jambalaya

and greasy oyster po’boys–

caught in the fibers of a shirt

when I stuck it in the washer

with a cup of

mountain fresh

 

And all the morsels of

the world I’ve captured in

a photograph

fade each time

I scroll past it in a

two-thousand memory

digital photo album

 

ruckkenrunruhe-  n. the feeling of returning home after an immersive trip only to find it fading rapidly from your awareness

 

 

 

Monachopsis

 

The garden holds like

the surface of water

until the gate swings open

and I,

with the careful smack of

yellow flip flops against

stepping stones,

arrive in New Gethsemane

 

But the crabapple tree

whispers to the bitter gourd

the mustard greens

the cherry tomatoes

the chickweeds

and with a thin, spotted finger

points

 

I cannot be the ant

on the ochre fence

with them–

only a thoroughbred

among them

 

monachopsis- n. the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

 

Katrin Flores, a student in the School for the Creative and Performing Arts program, is a junior at Lafayette High School. Besides writing, she is passionate about Jesus, hoards lipstick, plays the violin, and occasionally writes on gum wrappers when she’s desperate.

 

*poetry inspired by The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows*
www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com