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POETRY
Dear Hazel
By Malia Waddles This city’s still mine, But it feels like yours. Screeching memories clash with This urban song: I breathe and bleed ‘til my heart does stop. Brighter and fresher days lie among The shadows and the stubborn light between. Pocket change and branching, aching joints, Promise and pity: I dream of trusting myself again. Words overused and bruised beyond salvation, I dream of feeling and believing. The love I deliver breeds doubt and loathing: Handwritten
Malia Waddles
Oct 81 min read
Dear Hazel
By Malia Waddles This city’s still mine, But it feels like yours. Screeching memories clash with This urban song: I breathe and bleed ‘til my heart does stop. Brighter and fresher days lie among The shadows and the stubborn light between. Pocket change and branching, aching joints, Promise and pity: I dream of trusting myself again. Words overused and bruised beyond salvation, I dream of feeling and believing. The love I deliver breeds doubt and loathing: Handwritten
Malia Waddles
Oct 81 min read
Today I am eighty percent tears.
Red eyes, stuffy nose, and overly sensitive ears… I am overstimulated, Full of love and hatred at the same time, so I cry to clear some space for a chocolate bar and my assigned reading. Why are people so mean and greedy? I cry making eye contact with a homeless lady; Maybe I never grew up, Maybe I was never ready to be so far away from family and friends, to count minutes for my shift to end, and to spend hours in the library rewriting my essay. I miss his presence
Anya Yasenovets
Oct 81 min read
A Midnight Stroll
By: Sam McKeever A leaf catches in the gap of small, spinning wheels, slowing their inertial orbit around the shaded park. A balloon, tied in a bow around a sweaty handle, scrapes the twilit sky. Faint squalls float through the autumn air, while needy, unripe fingers clench flowering stems like a life raft. Their white petals, pure and unbroken, tremble in the child’s iron grip. I wonder— Does he feel the icy breeze beneath his thick red coat and tightly fastened brown scarf?
Samantha McKeever
Oct 81 min read
Last Thursday
By Samantha McKeever Last Thursday, or at least what I remember it to be, seems all too far away. Like words that hang lifeless in suffocating air, or anger that sleeps in poorly made beds. It’s normal, really, is what they say over long phone calls in silent rooms: dialing in and out of consciousness is nothing to be concerned about. It’s just the way things are. Things, at least, feel different. Calloused, warped, faded — all the words seem empty. I suppose that’s normal, a
Samantha McKeever
Apr 242 min read
An Unusual Time
By George Brown In Memory of Jill Brown Grandma tells me it's an unusual time. She is bruises and bone, upper lip catching on her teeth. She tells me much has become clear: She is grateful. The Lord doesn’t decide when the spirit must leave, He can only mourn, surrounded by his children. She still laughs like a penny, still remembers driving Mom barely nine months pregnant with a Goldfish on her lap to the new house, me in a car seat. She tells mom: you taught
George Brown
Apr 171 min read
Wisdom
By Rajika Bajgain I know there is no truth in the draw of the wine-dark river. I know each light on the trees is a star breathed alive by a blessing. I know your absence sweetens your memory, and that it's not your fault, nor is it mine. I know, I know, but like crystal dew on the lips of dawn the tears just fall so freely.
Rajika Rex Bajgain
Apr 101 min read
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