Anna Stenka 2015
Poem: "A Morning on a Purple Dinosaur"
Poem: "Birch Trees"
Poem: "Exploring My Thoughts"
Poem: "The Assassination of Carter Brown"
Poem: "The Wind Blew Here"
Twitter Pieces
After "Diving Into the Wreck"
A Morning on a Purple Dinosaur
Sitting on purple dinosaurs
has never interested me.
That is until today,
when sat I upon one and
wondered what they eat.
Who knows?
I learned my brother also enjoys the
company of brightly colored, plastic reptiles.
He is living two hundred miles away,
maybe more; maybe less.
Yet I felt the bond strengthen between us,
bringing us closer together.
Between a gap of 378 days
and 200 miles,
I like to think he felt it too.
Perhaps he did.
Who knows?
Who knows anything?
Who knows what purple dinosaurs eat or
why moths fly towards the light?
Who knows that I prefer blue slushies to red or
the square root of pi?
Who knows who invented the alphabet or
invents reasons for war?
Who knows how to stop chain smoking or
why we cause guilt for ourselves?
Who knows a sure way to cure hiccups or
how to love without being hurt?
If everyone knew only one thing,
people would still
parade around arrogantly,
as if they themselves know
every single idea
that God has for man.
One may even argue that
God does not exist,
and that he is just a figment
in the imagination of fools.
Once again, I will argue back
Who knows? I know I don’t.
I’m just a girl
sitting on a purple dinosaur.
Birch Trees
I am underground, where
a dimly lit darkness hangs in the room.
Its coolness is attributed
to cement walls
behind wooden panels.
Sinking into my bed I listen
to the quiet rattling window,
the rush of cars passing by,
and the sinking silence of the house.
A sense of peace could be found,
but only if searched for.
Paintings hang on the purple walls;
pieces of art I created.
The smallest one hangs below
the thick glass window;
the only source of light for the room.
She hangs there,
like the sun in the sky.
I run my fingers over the canvas.
I can feel how it has been thickened
by layers of paint.
The scent of acrylic is calming,
giving feelings of tranquility
and nostalgia.
I recalled the stroke of the brush,
the images of sunsets, tree leaves,
rippling water and white bark.
Birch trees against the sunset,
and my satisfaction
as it came to be.
Exploring My Thoughts
I follow my conscious mind
into the vast unknown.
Down the creaky, wooden steps,
I enter the darkness.
The cellar door latches behind me,
throwing me further into the abyss.
I walk, running my hand against the wall.
The cool, damp cement calms my fear.
As I pursue the nothing,
the air grows thick and musty
like topsoil and fresh rain.
Visions of April downpours
cloud my thoughts.
One by one, I carefully step.
Testing the hard floor with each forward venture,
waiting for it to cease in its existence
and for me to slip further into the puzzle.
The perpetual blackness ushers me on,
until splinters of groaning wood meet my hand.
Groping my way up a new staircase,
I embark into what is hopefully
light.
The Assassination of Carter Brown
Hello Class! This is Barter Brown.
You may call him Carter the day he decides he can spell his own name right.
Barter moved to Alma in the 5th grade.
The new kid on the block; I took pity on him.
I soon realized my mistake.
His voice echoed above the classroom,
drowning out the words of others with the skill of an elephant.
Seventh grade struck.
A new world full of hormones and locker rooms,
and Barter was still pushing every button I had
as if he was getting paid.
My seventh grade English bucket list:
Watch the movie ‘The Bucket List’
Go scuba diving in Australia
Visit Paris
Swim with dolphins
Assassinate Carter Brown.
My classmates and the teacher laughed
finding promises of a swift death to be amusing.
I meant every word to be lethal.
Looking back, I realized why.
Why Carter couldn’t sit still and
why Carter made an effort to be a class clown.
Why his voice filled and carried down hallways
like smoke.
Carter wanted to be liked.
Imagine not knowing anyone,
fearing the piercing, judging eyes
of elementary kids. Imagine
craving attention and love
that you’ve been deprived of. Imagine parents
too busy or uncaring to notice.
Imagine entering a new world
as a jester in the king’s court.
Trying to keep your head above water,
using laughter as a flotation device,
only to have it popped by promises of death.
Led to the guillotine by all the king’s horses
and all the king’s men.
The assassination of Carter Brown,
who is now my best friend.
The Wind Blew Here
Overhead, birds rehearse
their songs; planes leave white tails
like bread crumbs which
mark where they have been.
Unsure yet, of where they will be.
A little lower,
the wind whispers and
the trees speak softly back
with tales of baby birds and
secret keeping squirrels.
In the drifting air,
dandelion wishes blow from
where they once grew,
leaving behind empty promises
made by hopeful children.
On the ground, trash cans
full of gum wrappers
and lost dreams are spilling
onto the cracked sidewalks,
littering our foggy glassed world.