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The Morning Sun Through Your Window by Audrey Nash
Oftentimes, I like to live in an optimistic, fantasy world filled with joyful bliss.
The world does not have to be dark and cruel as it may appear,
Maybe those grey clouds are a handful of beauty you sometimes miss.
Because sometimes the world seems to flutter by with fear-
Filled eyes and defenses secured in place.
Tricks and trials to keep away the undesired beast,
And continue to assign people challenges they must face.
These adversities of living are the concern of the least.
Alas, you will not find me among the pessimists for I prefer to find myself in other places.
Like at the sunny, vibrant shore, or atop a snow-capped alpine peak.
The places I live without any kinds of disgraces.
The places I never feel obliged or ashamed to “properly” speak.
The places I can feel pure glee.
The places my mind satisfies itself in when it gets down dirty in the mud.
Because of this, my brain never dreads the rainy days or feels the need to flee.
I never have to get dragged into the piles of crud,
Since my path forward is so bright in my eyes, it burns right through them.
When I see others so distressed and full of discontent,
I simply can’t help but figure out the matter.
Because maybe I could help them too-- my love is a known constant.
Wait patiently through the difficulties to see what becomes in the time come latter.
After the thunderstorms pass, the merry birds sing
Their gleeful melodies dance through the air.
The crickets join in to enhance the magical ring.
There is always that shimmer of dawn following the sharpest of the night’s glare.
For smiles that shine with sunny sequences,
I can assure that any glimmer of hope could one day be grand.
All it takes is positive reality and optimistic frequencies. . .
Then your dreams might just land in the palm of your hand.
Once in a while, you’ll think and compile
Thousands of thoughts you never thought you could think.
These will reflect the lens of your world and the purpose of your smile,
So contemplate your values as you watch the sun sink
And remember that days ahead may not all be brighter,
But, you can choose whether to give in to the challenge, or come out a fighter.
Kate Woo, mixed media
Longings of a Lonely Winter’s Night by Anonymous
Silent darkness is filled with peaceful crystals all around,
the faint sound of church hymns put me at ease.
A vault of my fears has been perjured by clowns,
Alone in the vastness, a canopy of colorlessness.
Cold air and only cold air keeps me company in this canvas of white.
If the silence is lonely or liberating, I still can’t decide.
Consistent flakes reach the warm ground and dissipate.
I watch their long journey from the dark sky.
and I stand at the bottom as I cry.
Another beautiful moment spent all on my own.
Parting by Bryan Zhang
Before you leave, let’s turn our memories into liquor:
Intoxicate our nerves so the dulling pain is dulled in turn.
Before you part through the thin mist of falling autumn leaves.
Iris Yin, colored pencil
A Contemplation by Bryan Zhang
It’s a loneliness that you feel in strange places:
when surrounded by friends, you’d feel it ache.
when breathing beside the grass and mud,
it would be quenched; like gentle spring rain
tenderly soothing branches who are still tense
from a long winter that went unobserved.
It’d be a loneliness whose name you could not speak:
like swallows who run from the approaching dusk,
you’d flee from its name like a startled hare, or
a young child running after traces of a squirrel;
the thrill is in the chase, and not the bounty.
eventually, when sitting in quiet contemplation
amidst the urban chaos and modern noise, you’d
pack your belongings, and take a cab to the wilds
Only when alone with the fog and spruce,
you would come to terms with this strange tingle,
like an infant locking eyes with a new friend,
or visiting your father on his deathbed.
the end of something new, the start of something old.
and soon, when you extend your hands to the sky,
when you reach so high that you could touch the clouds,
you would have learned to take your seat by loneliness.
Titleless by Bryan Zhang
Four hundred meters above the ground,
Against the blue backdrop, a white bird flies,
Words woven out of past hatred and regret weave a crown
around the poor avian’s neck, tightening like a noose,
Or a lover’s embrace before they never return,
Slowly choking and forcing the air out of your lungs,
As if the air made you sick and ill,
As if the air which you fly in, soar and find freedom in,
Which you loved with all your heart (or what’s left)
Which you cared for with all your fortune (or what remained)
Which you nurtured better than yourself (at least the parts you recognize)
Which you had poured your soul into
dedicated your life to it sacrificed all your time for it stood in the storm for it swallowed your pride for it made the impossible possible for it
to be cut away from you.
Silently, the pearly white sprite which had flown now lies on the patch of green,
Lively green adorned with droplets of red, almost like a trail of crumbs,
And if one were to follow the path to where it originated,
One would find a perfect, unused white canvas,
with a grotesque stroke of black that struck right through,
A black that is darker than an unlit room
and brighter than the stars you gazed at through your window,
It makes it claim on the canvas, trembling and insecure, attempting to declare its ownership over the canvas
But if you looked past the small terrified figure,
you would see clearly behind it,
the canvas cries tears of crimson droplets.
But neither of you care to notice
Here Divides the Night by Bryan Zhang
in two, like the earth and the sky, like a line
drawn across the beach of wandering stars,
like a childish doodle across the vast canvas
of celestial symphonies, crudely disrupting
and disturbing those musicians who were in
perfect harmony. The noise and dissonance
seeps out of the great divide, like an oil leak
across the azure sea, like spilled coffee
across the clean bedsheet, like locusts
ravaging the serene and tranquil harvest of fall.
It is a fault, a crack, a flaw, an oversight;
It burns brightly in the dark sky above, consuming
the starlight in its wrathful flames, feeding its hunger.
Like a newborn screaming into empty air,
it lets out its rage on the innocent space:
tearing it, ripping it, biting it, scratching it.
The cold air slowly sings a hymn of passing.
Down here, far beneath the tears of the infant,
the mountains and rivers say their goodbyes.
mothers bid their children goodnight,
lovers embrace each other until the end.
like the stain slowly creeping up the musty walls,
The air crawls into people’s hearts and minds,
they know it will be goodbye.
Mud by Bryan Zhang
I’m petrified, stabilized by my own inability to
Move or even pursue all that’s in the world.
For as long as I know, I have remained
An object to be trampled under soles.
All my form’s a great uneven compromise,
Caving in as if it’s what I’m meant to do,
So they leave their filth with me, and withdraw
All senses of what’s pure and good to them,
Even if I tried to retain, reaching out my tiny arms,
They’d treat my touch as a stain, rinsing it as if
It was the mark of the corrupt.
So I’ve learned to retreat, cornering in a shady spot,
So I wouldn’t disrupt the picturesque scene which surrounds,
When the golden leaves fallen into my arms,
They slowly rot and make me strong, and they call it growth.
When more filth has filled me up.
Sharanya Vaidianathan, photograph of Santorini, Greece
A Drop of Rain and a Night Sky by Anonymous
Like a single drop of rain before the storm, an idea forms
It lands on my forehead
It lingers for a second
Before it slides gently down my nose
Hanging on its tip
Until its weight becomes to much
And it slips, hitting my upper lip
Then looking up
I see the floodgates of heaven open
The drop becomes a river
Its gentle motions become brutal rapids of purpose
They cover me completely
My eyes unable to see from the cloudy haze the water provides
Slowly my hand lifts
With a pencil, I bring it back
Down to the sheet of paper before me
In that space, between my pencil and the paper
Everything exists
The bounds of reality broken
The shackles of limitation destroyed
In that moment
I exist as no other has
I wield power unimaginable
Unfathomable
Inconceivable in its own right
The world shatters as my pencil presses on the paper
Like an explosion of omniscience
Control no longer matters
Like a night sky
My mind is ever fluctuating
Its reach unending
Its confines unknown
An infinite museum of past, present, and future
Each star, a masterpiece hung on display for the world
I reach up
Plucking a thought from the heavens
It shines in the palm of my hands
Ever expanding
Incapable of failure
It threatens all existence with its sheer power
Power to create change
And power to destroy it
I drop it onto my paper and in an instant
It becomes a celestial spring
The cosmos flow from it
Heavy and unremitting
The ceaseless galaxies pouring out from my paper become denser
Stronger
They bend time to their will
They crash into the sky like the waves of the ocean
Soon it breaks the very fabric of my universe
It tears through all existence
The now
And the not yet
Looking back up at my great museum in the sky
Realities now dance over each other
The already filled night sky
Is now enveloped by possibility
Overflowing with stars
Each new reality
Each new idea
Desperately fighting for control
I reach up again
Drawing another orb from my gallery
Finally understanding the force of this gift bestowed upon me
I birth ideas
From me empires rise and fall
Every word that leaves my mouth
Becomes the utmost truth
I have the power to change reality
Both mine and others
Yet my ideas
The world, little does to except
leaving my thoughts, my power, my voice, to fall into obscurity
And like a drop of rain before the storm
Or the night sky unbeloved by many
My destiny as the creator
Is to shackle and bind my mind
Rotting Leaves by Sayontika Bhattacharya
my pile of mistakes
is three times taller than me
it takes a rake
to organize the things I’ve done wrong
but the rake is too far away
and I’m too lazy
so I just watch
as more and more leaves fall to the ground
eventually the leaves will run out,
right?
eventually snow will fall,
and cover it all up,
with a white coat of paint
so I’ll wait
and wait and wait
for winter to break my stare
me, myself, and I watching leaves rot
through the dirty window
both of which,
I am too tired to clean
This writing was for an assignment in Creativity and Cultures. It is inspired by the Caspar David Friedrich painting The Monk By the Sea.
by Charlie Desjardins
The wind blew a chilling mist at the cliff-face. Each speck of the sea stung away at the tall rock, and the monk who stood firmly on it. The monk had a simple task. Hundreds of years of tradition told him so; that it could be conducted with ease, especially by a well-trained monk like him.
The sea’s mist maintained its stubborn barrage. Peering past the dark robes wrapped up to his eyes, past the rock and out to the ocean, he saw the shadows under the waves. They would be concerning for anyone, yes, but a monk should know what to do, what to feel. Still, our monk was unsettled.
It was not like the rituals back at his monastery, amongst the cloisters of boughs and singing birds. He thought of his life before, the simplicity of following in the footsteps of the grand masters. The howling thief of warmth brought him back to the cliff, the edge that cut into the mist. The wide embrace of the horizon enveloped his view. There was simply nothing but him, the raging fog, and the land’s last defense against the sea.
He alone had a choice to make. Would he carry out the transmutation, or would he let his failure live on, here at the end of the land? The wriggling anxiety, the disappointment at his hesitation, they could not be controlled. It was basic protocol to rein in one’s feelings, yet in the presence of this ever-vast, wind-swept sea and its cold, moist breath, our monk was as still as stone.
Perhaps he was still more man than he was monk, something that could not be said about his mentors and elders back at his monastery. With no one to judge him but himself, he soon left the cliff behind.
Change by Audrey Nash
How much can one change in their life?
Could they change from a precious gemstone deep below the surface
To a boulder of granite beside the stream?
Is it possible to escalate from a pebble to an avalanche?
Does anyone know?
How much one will grow?
What if they shrivel up over time and become dust laden like the picture books on
the shelf?
What if they get swept away into the land of green and greed?
What if they climb the beanstalk to the heavens above?
Could someone change that much?
Like the sea’s tides,
The breeze blowing through my hair tonight.
Like the stars that sparkle each and every night.
Like the leaves when the winter wind whistles grow louder.
It would seem to me so.
Can love change that quickly, too?
I guess it would depend on the question of weather.
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