Crocuses

 

 

Photo By: Grace Crozier

Off the Beaten Path

Here I lie-
Waiting.
I twist and turn
But only because I’m
Excited
For the next pair of foot prints
To wander
Off the beaten path
And make their mark
Upon my barely trodden soul

I may not be the quickest
Or easiest of ways
But I wish that people would care
To walk under the sturdy oaks
That hug me on either side

I’m no 5th avenue
No Champs- Elysees
But perhaps the soft sounds
Of acorns thumping on the ground
Is better than that
Crowded city air

So until the next person gets tired
Of walking down the same cement streets
Everyday
I will wait
For that thud, shuffle or scrape
Of a new pair of
Boots, sneakers, or sandals
Finding their way
On the barely trodden surface
Of my soul

-Julia Yee, May 2014

Waves

 

 

Painting By: Madigan Drummond

The Mosquito

this small flying beast of nature travels by the pond

selecting its prey ever so carefully

as it soars through the heavy sky

it stops to fulfill its thirst

slowly sipping the life out of humans

only to use as fuel to cater to its unborn offspring

one may ask

why does this savage belong to our civilized world

for it only causes pain and frustration

leaving its influence in just a stigma full of irritation and prickliness

however this mere mark

marks the end of the cold days

and the rise of the new pains

harking the the arrival of summer

-Rock Hoffman, May 2014

France

                                                                    Drawing By: Madigan Drummond

Letters and Numbers

45 on the road, 16 off it,
20 in the library, coffee
and textbooks in hand.
15 in the dorm, jesting,
fooling around. Maybe 6.
80 in the shower, long, hot
ones especially. But 40
in the morning. Eyes
bleary, unseeing, as I wait
for the fruits of my labor
To drip down in letters
And numbers. To be
Judged, forever and ever,
By bar lines strangling the soul.
– Anonymous, April 2014

The Winter Walk

My great grandfather used to say,

“The trenches were terrible, son,

All sorts of creepy crawlers running

‘round and round, scuffling over

Frostbitten wretches like it was their

Playground. Trenchfoot, trenchmouth,

All the nasty stuff you can ever imagine:

There it was, on the front lines,

Facing millions of Kaiser Wilhelm’s brutes.

And when you went over the top,

You felt a moment of life and death, suspended

In two worlds, bullets chasing your soul,

‘Till you came back to your senses

and started marching. One foot at a time.”

And so I walked, across no-man’s land

Across hundreds of feet of snow and dust,

Salt in my shoe and water in my socks.

Walking to the other side, where I thought

Home must be. So easily reachable

Yet so disgustingly repulsive.

-Anonymous, April 2014

Beets

    

 

    Drawing By: Emma Boyd 

A Lover Alone at Sea

Hello, my darling, how are you, my darling? The sun has risen, and it sparkles on the cerulean waves, the ocean as vast, deep, and wild as my thoughts. You are the small whirlpool in the center of the blue, slowly drawing every thought toward you, slowly growing bigger and stronger and more demanding.

 

Hello, my darling, how are you, dearheart? I try to find you in the world around me. The sand is the hair on your arms in the sunlight, but I can’t quite decide which is your eyes: the sky, the shallow waters of the shoreline, or the infinite depths of the deep ocean that swim with fish and beauteous creatures yet undiscovered by men.

 

Hello, my darling, do you miss me, my darling? The seagulls’ cries echo the pining sobs of my heart. Waking up is not the same, not when I cannot see your face in the light of the morning. I wonder if you miss me like I miss you; my imagination creates scenarios as plentiful and insubstantial as the white clouds that drift across my sky.

 

Hello, my darling, do you remember, my darling? The waves shush along the shore, and I remember your laugh, quiet but still there, an insistent chuckle that wraps around my skin. The salt coats my lips, and I think of the sweat that would rivulet down your temple. The sun beats down on me, and its slow burn reminds me of the feeling of brushing against your skin, a touch ever so subtle and transient but still there, still meaning so much. I squint against the bright light, and I recall the crinkle of your eyes when you smile, the sharp pull of your lips over your crooked teeth.

Hello, my darling, I love you, my darling. Don’t let the riptide of time carry you away from me.

 

-Mari Herrema, May 2014 

Close-Up

    

 

    Photo By: View Kuphirun