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







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.