Poking holes in the top and the sides of the
raw potato makes my stomach growl.
I open the door to the black microwave,
and hit the baked potato button hoping it will be
done soon.
Having the potato going around in
circles, on the glass plate in the
microwave, makes me go insane.
I just have to walk away, until
I hear the microwave make a sound.
Which sounds like,
BEEP!
The butter inside the cut backed potato
slowly begins to melt.
Topped with sour cream, melted cheese, and
bacon bites.
I stab my fork on the end of the potato
to get a piece of the
irresistible
baked potato.
As I keep eating the baked potato,
it keeps getting smaller and smaller.
I use the last few pieces to clean
the sour cream up from my plate.
The last bite makes me sad,
because its gone.
Once I finish the baked potato,
I am stuffed from the loaded baked potato.
The baked potato can not last forever.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Nightfall by Ashley Osmecki
A hint of air, imagine
a bright daisy in a shattered field.
Crickets breathed cruel and brittle musk.
I've been cheated; I've been choked,
and could not breathe in good words.
These thoughts ultimately bring such darkness.
There will be no traffic in me. The shame is
to torch and to teach.
Defenselessness haunts me.
I argue casually, with chills,
despite my arrogance. Go,
no need for such corruption.
Burdened again, dressed and grouchy,
no situation changes me,
material as lace.
a bright daisy in a shattered field.
Crickets breathed cruel and brittle musk.
I've been cheated; I've been choked,
and could not breathe in good words.
These thoughts ultimately bring such darkness.
There will be no traffic in me. The shame is
to torch and to teach.
Defenselessness haunts me.
I argue casually, with chills,
despite my arrogance. Go,
no need for such corruption.
Burdened again, dressed and grouchy,
no situation changes me,
material as lace.
Sacred by Andrea Fahey
Today my mother gave me a church-
Be good to it Mollie, it is sacred
It's a white church that sits on Beth Hill-
a quart of mud and marble on bread.
Saints and hail rain on this month of March.
Preacher, please help me.
Her breath reaches its height-
Go right now and fetch me some tea, amen.
I watched Mother dance down the aisle,
her hands touching in prayer position.
My heart aches for her.
Thunder in the distance smells magnificent.
Mother is gone. I kneel to pray.
Be good to it Mollie, it is sacred
It's a white church that sits on Beth Hill-
a quart of mud and marble on bread.
Saints and hail rain on this month of March.
Preacher, please help me.
Her breath reaches its height-
Go right now and fetch me some tea, amen.
I watched Mother dance down the aisle,
her hands touching in prayer position.
My heart aches for her.
Thunder in the distance smells magnificent.
Mother is gone. I kneel to pray.
Transformation by Lauren Costedio
No thoughts of me
at summertime. It's a total liberation.
Sure, or not healing,
I rest my shy face.
Change me,
teach me to go.
Oh the lighting says, "Love you goodly,
love always."
I gain peace when there is detachment
which I choose at once.
I sigh,
everything detaches.
I begin dreaming, something
gained in the time and space.
Ache to see. I am
creating. See I am
light.
at summertime. It's a total liberation.
Sure, or not healing,
I rest my shy face.
Change me,
teach me to go.
Oh the lighting says, "Love you goodly,
love always."
I gain peace when there is detachment
which I choose at once.
I sigh,
everything detaches.
I begin dreaming, something
gained in the time and space.
Ache to see. I am
creating. See I am
light.
Careless Mollie By Karleen Delorme
Brittle Mollie, who's so careless
plays in the mud
She doesn't hear her cries
the cries that made a creek
the creek that turned into a river
a river that flows around the mountain.
It's as if Mollie
is ignoring the music that crosses her ears.
Mollie create your dream cloud
and the stairs to stop your cries.
plays in the mud
She doesn't hear her cries
the cries that made a creek
the creek that turned into a river
a river that flows around the mountain.
It's as if Mollie
is ignoring the music that crosses her ears.
Mollie create your dream cloud
and the stairs to stop your cries.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Healing by Michaela Savell
The world died ten years ago. It was nothing but a depleted corpse the year following, filled with burnt fragments of life passed. The ashes were washed away by the rain, but the souls of the city were stained.
New York still feels the pain from those scars.
Glass and debris still litter the streets, but nothing can be seen. A ghostly plane of death streaks the sidewalks, scenting of car exhaust and lit cigarettes. Lively coffee shops sprinkle the drab, as do the TV screens bringing life to Times Square. Laughter radiates the screens, dyed various shades of greens and blues. Buses swerve out of the way of zealous pedestrians and the cat-call of taxis dapple the skyline.
Pigeons coo. Teenagers swear. The chaos of the city becomes a lifeline, an alarm to that wakes millions from their lengthy slumber. Patterns train the eye, smells tempt the nose, and same tunes play on the blaring radios, over and over again. Dreams are awakened faces of exhaustion fade. Immigrants come. The needy come. The rich waste their lives away.
Then there is silence. Emptiness. No emotion. No sound.
Here once stood towers of lass, stretching towards the leavens with twin hands.
Gone are the faces of thousands that had broken this sadness. Gone are the failures. Gone are the dreams. Pain is conjured up at the sight of nothingness. Hatred is directed towards scapegoats. All negativity lays a foundation to the eye. Darkness seeps into the earth, but light does too; some have found forgiveness through the horror. Some have found life.
The would move on, but doesn’t forget. Although scarred, it works towards the healing it so desperately needs.
New York still feels the pain from those scars.
Glass and debris still litter the streets, but nothing can be seen. A ghostly plane of death streaks the sidewalks, scenting of car exhaust and lit cigarettes. Lively coffee shops sprinkle the drab, as do the TV screens bringing life to Times Square. Laughter radiates the screens, dyed various shades of greens and blues. Buses swerve out of the way of zealous pedestrians and the cat-call of taxis dapple the skyline.
Pigeons coo. Teenagers swear. The chaos of the city becomes a lifeline, an alarm to that wakes millions from their lengthy slumber. Patterns train the eye, smells tempt the nose, and same tunes play on the blaring radios, over and over again. Dreams are awakened faces of exhaustion fade. Immigrants come. The needy come. The rich waste their lives away.
Then there is silence. Emptiness. No emotion. No sound.
Here once stood towers of lass, stretching towards the leavens with twin hands.
Gone are the faces of thousands that had broken this sadness. Gone are the failures. Gone are the dreams. Pain is conjured up at the sight of nothingness. Hatred is directed towards scapegoats. All negativity lays a foundation to the eye. Darkness seeps into the earth, but light does too; some have found forgiveness through the horror. Some have found life.
The would move on, but doesn’t forget. Although scarred, it works towards the healing it so desperately needs.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Moving Out by Andrea Fahey
Growing up my house was always messy. We were always one of those families that scrambled to pick up the house as best we could whenever we would be having company. This same tactic was used when our house all of a sudden went up for sale. Dino, an old friend of my dad’s and now our realtor, would sometimes call unexpectedly telling my parents someone would be coming to look at the house shortly. This is when all hell broke loose and our house turned into a war zone. My mom and dad shouting out orders, “Andrea, you and Stephen cover the living room, Tommy, you clean up the basement, Brian go make sure your room isn’t a pig sty!”
I hated how that Century 21 Real Estate Sign sat in the corner of your yard and all the emotions it would soon bring to me. My brothers and I would sometimes throw rocks at the sign and try and destroy it, thinking that would somehow fix our situation. The tears finally came when SOLD was posted on to that already horrible sign, as if it wasn’t bad enough.
There was nothing I could do to change the fact that we were moving, I just had to accept this fact and try to look on the bright side. But back then I couldn’t think of a bright side. The feeling of moving boxes lined the walls of our house. Day by day our house felt less and less like home as the picture frames, books, and decorations from each room were packed away in boxes labeled and taped. We must have gone through twenty rolls of that moving tape throughout the whole process. Packing up my room was the worst! My Amazing Days of Abbey Hayes books and the numerous diaries I had filled with the honest truth from first to sixth grade had their own box. While packing those books and diaries into the boxes, I cried. Tears fell from my eyes as I read all of the entries of the life that I would be leaving. Countless pages were filled of the names of my numerous elementary school crushes, I love Brad and I love Sean, or the occasional A.F + J.S = LOVE. I cried too while reading all of my stories about David, the dark haired boy who lived in the house up the street from me, who was also my best friend. I was coming to the realization that I would be leaving the blue walls of my room forever. I threw away the Andrea’s Room sign that I had drawn in bubbles letters with purple marker because it simply wasn’t going to be my room anymore. My bedroom, the sanctuary of my home, the place where I would stay up late with my friends whispering and sharing secrets with one another no longer belonged to me. It was wired think about MY room, would soon become someone else’s bedroom. I wondered if I was leaving it to a girl like me to fill it with her own posters and pictures, or if it were to be transformed into a boy’s room, or maybe even an office. I wondered if the walls would stay that shade of blue that I loved and was so indecisive on that one spring day in Home Depot when I decided I wanted to paint my room.
I woke up early that day in late August 2007. My mom and dad already began to pick up the rented moving truck. I never realized how red the carpets were until I saw my house so bare and empty. As everything that made out house a home made its way into the crammed moving truck it was time to say our goodbyes.
My mom’s old piano was the last thing piled into the truck. We were giving it to David’s family in fear that we wouldn’t have enough room for it in our new home and also because his younger sister Sophia was beginning to play the piano thanks to my mother’s lessons. Confused, my brothers and I watched my mom climb in to the back of the truck. We watched her play the piano in the back of the truck all the way up the street to David’s house. Her favorite Irish songs echoed through the street of 235 Tisdale Street on her old, slightly out of tune piano.
I hated how that Century 21 Real Estate Sign sat in the corner of your yard and all the emotions it would soon bring to me. My brothers and I would sometimes throw rocks at the sign and try and destroy it, thinking that would somehow fix our situation. The tears finally came when SOLD was posted on to that already horrible sign, as if it wasn’t bad enough.
There was nothing I could do to change the fact that we were moving, I just had to accept this fact and try to look on the bright side. But back then I couldn’t think of a bright side. The feeling of moving boxes lined the walls of our house. Day by day our house felt less and less like home as the picture frames, books, and decorations from each room were packed away in boxes labeled and taped. We must have gone through twenty rolls of that moving tape throughout the whole process. Packing up my room was the worst! My Amazing Days of Abbey Hayes books and the numerous diaries I had filled with the honest truth from first to sixth grade had their own box. While packing those books and diaries into the boxes, I cried. Tears fell from my eyes as I read all of the entries of the life that I would be leaving. Countless pages were filled of the names of my numerous elementary school crushes, I love Brad and I love Sean, or the occasional A.F + J.S = LOVE. I cried too while reading all of my stories about David, the dark haired boy who lived in the house up the street from me, who was also my best friend. I was coming to the realization that I would be leaving the blue walls of my room forever. I threw away the Andrea’s Room sign that I had drawn in bubbles letters with purple marker because it simply wasn’t going to be my room anymore. My bedroom, the sanctuary of my home, the place where I would stay up late with my friends whispering and sharing secrets with one another no longer belonged to me. It was wired think about MY room, would soon become someone else’s bedroom. I wondered if I was leaving it to a girl like me to fill it with her own posters and pictures, or if it were to be transformed into a boy’s room, or maybe even an office. I wondered if the walls would stay that shade of blue that I loved and was so indecisive on that one spring day in Home Depot when I decided I wanted to paint my room.
I woke up early that day in late August 2007. My mom and dad already began to pick up the rented moving truck. I never realized how red the carpets were until I saw my house so bare and empty. As everything that made out house a home made its way into the crammed moving truck it was time to say our goodbyes.
My mom’s old piano was the last thing piled into the truck. We were giving it to David’s family in fear that we wouldn’t have enough room for it in our new home and also because his younger sister Sophia was beginning to play the piano thanks to my mother’s lessons. Confused, my brothers and I watched my mom climb in to the back of the truck. We watched her play the piano in the back of the truck all the way up the street to David’s house. Her favorite Irish songs echoed through the street of 235 Tisdale Street on her old, slightly out of tune piano.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
When by Jessia Pereira
When the fears scare you away.
When the dreams chase you down the wrong path.
When the light doesn't reach the dark.
And when the tears don't help the aftermath.
It comes down to a choice.
Do you stay
Or leave?
When the heart argues with your head,
the answer can not be retrived.
When the dreams chase you down the wrong path.
When the light doesn't reach the dark.
And when the tears don't help the aftermath.
It comes down to a choice.
Do you stay
Or leave?
When the heart argues with your head,
the answer can not be retrived.
Memories by Monica Swanton
I trace my fingers along the wrinkled leather
and I'm instantly hit with a rush of nostalgia.
There's the pink nail polish splatter from my cousin's sleepover party.
And the cherry soda stain from my last birthday.
That's the thick streak of Sharpie from a recent art project.
And the buttery popcorn pieces from last Friday's movie night.
There's the pen mark from my biology studying session,
I suppose that was one too many Punnett squares...
This is the dried wax from the vanilla christamss candle.
Here are the scratches from the claes of our new puppy...
That's the sticky smudge of barbecue sauce from when my brother
was too lazy to get the paper towels.
I grab a pillow and smll the fresh Febreeze,
This is the pillow I used
to cover my eyes when we watched Friday the 13th.
Here's the blanket I found wrapped around me
when I woke up the following morning.
I listen to the echoes of laughter and conversation
That make me relive good times and sad times.
This is where I was when I fought out
The sad news about Grandma.
And the good news about Aunt Mildred.
Home to my lost cell phone for many days.
Where the winner of Scrabble was chosen countless times.
Here, I spent most of
My sick days,
Lazy Saturdays,
Sweltering summers,
And Super Bowl Sundays.
Some people look at this couch and see
Nothing more than a sorry looking sofa
With saggy cushions and lumpy pillows
And a block of wood propped under the right leg
But I,
I look at this couch and see my memories.
And every time I flop down onto the soft cushions,
I relive old memories and make new ones.
and I'm instantly hit with a rush of nostalgia.
There's the pink nail polish splatter from my cousin's sleepover party.
And the cherry soda stain from my last birthday.
That's the thick streak of Sharpie from a recent art project.
And the buttery popcorn pieces from last Friday's movie night.
There's the pen mark from my biology studying session,
I suppose that was one too many Punnett squares...
This is the dried wax from the vanilla christamss candle.
Here are the scratches from the claes of our new puppy...
That's the sticky smudge of barbecue sauce from when my brother
was too lazy to get the paper towels.
I grab a pillow and smll the fresh Febreeze,
This is the pillow I used
to cover my eyes when we watched Friday the 13th.
Here's the blanket I found wrapped around me
when I woke up the following morning.
I listen to the echoes of laughter and conversation
That make me relive good times and sad times.
This is where I was when I fought out
The sad news about Grandma.
And the good news about Aunt Mildred.
Home to my lost cell phone for many days.
Where the winner of Scrabble was chosen countless times.
Here, I spent most of
My sick days,
Lazy Saturdays,
Sweltering summers,
And Super Bowl Sundays.
Some people look at this couch and see
Nothing more than a sorry looking sofa
With saggy cushions and lumpy pillows
And a block of wood propped under the right leg
But I,
I look at this couch and see my memories.
And every time I flop down onto the soft cushions,
I relive old memories and make new ones.
Haikus by Jessica Pereira
Dark angles above,
Come resuce me from today.
I want to join you.
I can choose their fate.
His, hers, theirws, and yours like that.
I could be in charge.
That way we all get
What er deserve and no less,
Especially you.
Come resuce me from today.
I want to join you.
I can choose their fate.
His, hers, theirws, and yours like that.
I could be in charge.
That way we all get
What er deserve and no less,
Especially you.
Vacation Land by Emily Tucker
My knees crack as I step out of the car, the fresh air feels like home. It feels like we drove for hours, just to pull up to the same old house, the blue paint fading and the white porch chipping. I can’t tell if it was worth it or not,I remembered it being different the past times I had been there. Now it was empty, the trees looked older, the grass not as green. A memory flashed into my mind as I limped my way up the front steps. It was midmorning, everyone scrambling to finish packing, when someone out of the dozen decided it would be a good idea to take a family picture. The photo flashed before my eyes and I smiled, had it really been that long since the whole family had been there together? It had only been a year since I had walked the front steps but even then the memories had never been so clear.
The scent of cigarette smoke filled my nose as the door opened. “Mom, where are you?” my Grammy shouted from the front room. “Is that you Diane?” my great grandmothers faint voice came from upstairs.
The stairs cracked beneath my feet as I stumbled up the steep steps. I opened the furthest door on the left. It was exactly as I had remembered it. Completely pink, with lace and all. I had no sooner unpacked and collapsed onto the double bed when Bampy, my grandfather, hollered up the stairs “Anyone up for a Timmy Ho’s trip?” I ran down the stairs, sliding my sandals on as I walked out the door. Finally, I can have my Tim Hortons bagel and iced coffee I had been craving for over a year.
Driving down the main road all I saw was familiar places, the small little bakery my Grammy swore had the best bread, the Scotia Bank, and of course Archibalds Warf, or as we call it, the boardwalk. Turning into the drive through of Tim Hortons, ordering a dozen Tim Bits, an Ice Cap and bagel, enough snacks to last a few days.
“Where to next?” Bampy asked me. “Can we go and see the girls?” The girls were my 3rd cousins, all around the same age as me. I had pictures of us as toddlers making cookies, and pictures of us as teenagers having movie nights. But all those years in between, they were lost.
Click, click, click, the blinker was on. Turning onto Archibald Ave, passing St. Josephs Church, and parking right in front of the big red house with the wrap around porch. I slammed the door shut running up the big staircase, furiously knocking on the door. Next thing I knew I was bombarded by hugs from the entire family.
After catching up for a while we all decided to go to Sydney Harbour , so we jumped in the car. We had to drive into Sydney. Along the way we passed Swiss Chalet for dinner, and a few jokes told here and there. When we arrived the air was cool along the boardwalk, and you could smell the seafood from restaurants in town. Another image flashed into my mind, I remembered seeing a picture of me as a toddler, sitting in a stroller, eating a slushie, with my baseball cap on hair blowing in the wind, right on this boardwalk.
The sun started to set as we piled back into the car, my eyes felt heavy from a long day of traveling. I couldn’t wait to turn back into the driveway of the little blue house, with the chipping white porch, to run up the creaking stairs and curl up on the bed and just sleep.
The scent of cigarette smoke filled my nose as the door opened. “Mom, where are you?” my Grammy shouted from the front room. “Is that you Diane?” my great grandmothers faint voice came from upstairs.
The stairs cracked beneath my feet as I stumbled up the steep steps. I opened the furthest door on the left. It was exactly as I had remembered it. Completely pink, with lace and all. I had no sooner unpacked and collapsed onto the double bed when Bampy, my grandfather, hollered up the stairs “Anyone up for a Timmy Ho’s trip?” I ran down the stairs, sliding my sandals on as I walked out the door. Finally, I can have my Tim Hortons bagel and iced coffee I had been craving for over a year.
Driving down the main road all I saw was familiar places, the small little bakery my Grammy swore had the best bread, the Scotia Bank, and of course Archibalds Warf, or as we call it, the boardwalk. Turning into the drive through of Tim Hortons, ordering a dozen Tim Bits, an Ice Cap and bagel, enough snacks to last a few days.
“Where to next?” Bampy asked me. “Can we go and see the girls?” The girls were my 3rd cousins, all around the same age as me. I had pictures of us as toddlers making cookies, and pictures of us as teenagers having movie nights. But all those years in between, they were lost.
Click, click, click, the blinker was on. Turning onto Archibald Ave, passing St. Josephs Church, and parking right in front of the big red house with the wrap around porch. I slammed the door shut running up the big staircase, furiously knocking on the door. Next thing I knew I was bombarded by hugs from the entire family.
After catching up for a while we all decided to go to Sydney Harbour , so we jumped in the car. We had to drive into Sydney. Along the way we passed Swiss Chalet for dinner, and a few jokes told here and there. When we arrived the air was cool along the boardwalk, and you could smell the seafood from restaurants in town. Another image flashed into my mind, I remembered seeing a picture of me as a toddler, sitting in a stroller, eating a slushie, with my baseball cap on hair blowing in the wind, right on this boardwalk.
The sun started to set as we piled back into the car, my eyes felt heavy from a long day of traveling. I couldn’t wait to turn back into the driveway of the little blue house, with the chipping white porch, to run up the creaking stairs and curl up on the bed and just sleep.
Doctor Snooze by Jurnee Ware
Some people say sleeping is the one place you can escape from the hurt,
But I say it's where it hurts the most
Because right before your eyes are no longer useful, and all you hear is suddenly drowned out.
You think your deepest thoughts
About the one thing that makes you happiest.
But in fact, at that moment, that thing makes you the saddest.
It makes you think that another night is going to pass by without him lying next to you.
And as you sleep, you dream of what could be
What should be,
What you want it to be,
And when the world is yet again clear,
And the sun shines through your window.
A tear runs down your face,
Because you realize you're alone
Better yet, lonely,
Surrounded by so many people,
But wishing it was just him.
And the day his hand touches yours,
The day his eyes meet with yours,
And the day his lips sweep yours
Will be the day you can enjoy your sleep,
With his body next to yours.
But for now,
Sleep is just closure.
Sleep is your therapy.
Sleep won't hide your feelings
But embrace them.
But I say it's where it hurts the most
Because right before your eyes are no longer useful, and all you hear is suddenly drowned out.
You think your deepest thoughts
About the one thing that makes you happiest.
But in fact, at that moment, that thing makes you the saddest.
It makes you think that another night is going to pass by without him lying next to you.
And as you sleep, you dream of what could be
What should be,
What you want it to be,
And when the world is yet again clear,
And the sun shines through your window.
A tear runs down your face,
Because you realize you're alone
Better yet, lonely,
Surrounded by so many people,
But wishing it was just him.
And the day his hand touches yours,
The day his eyes meet with yours,
And the day his lips sweep yours
Will be the day you can enjoy your sleep,
With his body next to yours.
But for now,
Sleep is just closure.
Sleep is your therapy.
Sleep won't hide your feelings
But embrace them.
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