January Poetry Features

In Darkness There’s Light

By: David N Arriaga

The world is covered in shadows of dark, while our eyes fill with despair, our hearts begin to race as we stare at the feelings of depression and anxiety, as if no one would care.

Lost and alone in a crashing ocean of anxiety and loneliness, we search for a light of hope, a sense of value to be shown.

Within the shadows, sparks of light, almost a beacon of hope, shining through the night, through to depths of darkness, a glimmer so bright.

A lantern of hope guiding with all its strength.

In these weary eyes, a spark starts to ignite, a new spark of strength cuts through the night.

As we start to break free from depression, the shackles no longer hold us low, the lantern of hope illuminates the road to go.

Anxiety dissipates, as courage begins to retake its place, embracing the world's newfound grace.

No longer alone, for support is all around us a network of love, where solace can be found.

As we remember darkness never leaves but if we push it far away by strength it will try to creep back into our lives, and we will have a light of hope to pull us out of its grasp. 

Even if the world seems bleak.

Value yourself, and embrace the light that you possess.

And let it guide you to a world of happiness, peacefulness, and love.

The Point at Which Childhood Deserts You

By: Alivia Brown

I miss the big old tree that shielded all the sun trying to reach my living room.

The fake fireplace that made every early morning warm

while me and my dad watched cartoons on the hard floor,

and waited for my mom and sister to wake up.

Fatigue always hung from my eyelids like weighty costume earrings.

I remember always walking to the bathroom that reeked of hairspray,

that I shared with my sister and my dad, 

and not being able to see myself in the mirror.

I jumped and jumped,

trying to see at least the top of my head.

I waited patiently for the days I would see my reflection without jumping or climbing. 

On my dad’s 40th birthday, 

we spent all night and all day, 

filling up rainbow balloons with the entirety of our lungs,

spreading them throughout the dining room and the living room. 

He came home from a long night of listening to slurred, drunk stories, 

and was surprised by a waterfall of balloons falling out from behind the shower curtain.

There were times when he would get home long overdue, 

and me and my sister would be fast asleep, 

snuggled in my mom’s bed, 

with reruns of Seinfeld and my mom's loud snores in the background.

I eventually got too heavy to be scooped up from her bed and placed into mine. 

There were Halloweens that started with snow, or rain, 

and Easters that had March lingering in them

that shook my bones and froze my core. 

But they were always filled with magic, 

just as a child would believe them to be. 

I remember when I moved, 

and how it felt similar to when I realized Santa wasn't real. 

How my room doesn't actually feel like my room. 

How having my own sink,

just doesn't feel right. 

How I can see my whole self in the mirror.

How the sun seeps through into the living room with ease.

Every lost stuffed animal is a lost childhood.

Forgotten.

Abused.

Neglected.

Stuck in corners,

coated in dust until the rooms are cleaned out.

Dropped, left on the streets,

more unrecognizable by the day. 

Alone. Soggy and muddy. 

Invisible against the dirty brick walls.

Clothes that don’t fit quite right.

Ripped and faded.

Bloodied in some places.

Mangled, with no place to call home.

What happens to them?

The scavengers and the scavenged.

The scared.

The scraped.

The misplaced. 

The ones that never find home or family?

Are they ever found? 

Cleaned as best as possible,

then sent off to another child? 

Left in the wind to rot?

Green is the color of life.

It kisses the leaves of trees,

and smiles at the swaying grass.

Even the creeping moss

is blessed by its grace.

Lovely and alive, green is

just like you.

Tonight let’s dance under the green moon.

You say it isn’t green,

but how do you know?

The moon looks green tonight,

overflowing with life.

Let’s pretend, just for a few hours,

that the sage moon is God.
We’ll search for salvation in 

its gentle light.

We worship with our bare feet, making

clumsy reruns.

With fern crowns and flower wreaths,

we look like pagans of old; 

twirling under the green moon to

a song unheard.

The smell of damp earth

made the road to enlightenment 

feel only a few steps away.

You smiled, your eyes curving into

gentle crescents.

I have never felt peace like I did then,

in that night of earthly heaven.

Only when our bones ached like Atlas’s

did we finally crawl into bed.

Hands clasped in prayer,

we expressed gratitude to 

the gentle moon

and the color of life.

Sage, celadon, shamrock,

we named every shade we could.

And when we opened our eyes

after a final “thank you,”

I swear that your brown irises

glowed emerald. 

“Here’s a flower for you,”

my teacher whispered,

as she set down the gift.

It wasn’t anything exceptional,

in fact, 

some might consider it 

the opposite.

It really wasn’t even a flower. 

Merely a deceased 

leaf and stem,

that looked 

rather stern.

Purple and gray veins

laid dormant on the 

fragile but stiff

leaf.

I left the “flower”

alone on the 

splintered, wooden table,

where the end of its stem

seemed to reach 

up towards the 

dazing sunlight.

I wondered if 

this tiny fragment of life,

would miss the

vivid hellos of the sun,

that welcomed itself through

the generous windows;

or the spacious pot 

where it and its kin 

spread their roots into 

tangles of love.

Now it sits on my desk

under the artificial 

light of my lamp,

a mile away from its cradle;

where it tears itself apart,

attempting to fold into itself.

Motivated by a desire to become

nothing at all.

The last days of summer are like 

grieving over the death of a friend. 

The sun chases the creeping horizon 

faster and faster, 

begging to be diminished by the dried grass 

that reaches up in hopes of caressing the 

dying orange flame. 

But even with autumn’s strongest endeavor, I will never forget 

how August’s sun blinded me sweetly. 

I will never forget how the thick June rays 

grossly filled my pores and 

encompassed me in fresh-cut grass. 

Even when the November trees cover themselves 

in wintry white palls to warm their pale, naked arms, 

I will never forget. 

Even when December sucks away 

the sun’s glowing imprint, 

I will never forget. 

I will never forget how the big bulb of light 

and life smothered my bare arms like butter, 

making me feel reckless 

for sauntering about without a coat. 

I will never forget how my salty July sweat rolled onto my tongue 

and just for a second, it almost tasted good, 

and quenched my thirst better than water ever could. 

I will never forget my excitement for the newfound 

gleam of May, how it always felt like a 

big middle finger to winter’s saddest 

lung-squeezing grip. 

Though September torments me with its approach, 

though the dull and lifeless 

clouds prey upon me with inevitability, 

I know the green leaves will lazily grow back. 

I know the bright yellow pollen will make me sneeze again. 

Even on the days when it seems the gray sky plans on 

invading the entire year, 

the sun peeks through the 

cloud’s cracks and doubts, reminding me that its 

light will always prevail.

Many don’t appreciate all that they can hear with their ears.

The voices of love,

a flock of doves,

or maybe even nothing above, and someone just loves the weighing silence that tugs.

But what do I love?

I love the serenading whistles of the 8:00 AM train,

I love the whispers and chuckles of silly growing pains,

I love the calming kazoo that swishes and moves through the brown feathers blending the mourning dove.

Brown, a color that surrounds, it surrounds you like a predator in the dark and gulps you whole.

But not like the slow black void of absence, or even the glaring ferocity that white roars.

No, brown, just like its noise it gulps and calms you whole;

just like the big fish in the book my elementary teacher used to read.

I loved her voice, 

even if I couldn’t remember it. 

I try to think about it, long and hard.

But it brings me back,

back not to her voice, but to something more boist. 

Sounds of hallways and classrooms flood my memories,

but now, in new bounds, the classrooms that I surround flood with new crowns.

Voices of children that grew up, 

only now their faces are melted on walls or frozen in enthrall of how the times have sprawled; 

and with no room to spare, 

as I speed down those stairs,

noises appear.

I hear a train whistle and chime,

girls laugh about guys, 

and birds that only sing when they fly. 

But I never mind,

because these are the sounds I love to hear all the time.

I picture out love like

A choice to want to want.

It is a wanting, and then following, in easy steps, is the want

To keep at wanting. I think of

Redwood trees in wide fireside summer, with

Brilliant infinite sun, smooth verdant water;

Pushing off at the iron swing set

For the thousandth rhythmic time;

Picking through the faultlines in every word,

The unhemmed edges and coarse insides of each said sentence;

Wanting all the broken-off pieces, informal pronunciations;

Knowing, wanting-to-be-knowing, and simplicity.

And like this,

I want for a hand to want to

Take me up, not as a

Dagger, or an angry word,

Not as a tired tool, or

Brutal shield. I want a hand to want

To get to the thick of me —

To the rendered heart below

My bent neck and behind my caged-up ribs, only splayed

If by frigid blade or crumbling silt.

I want another hand to want

For me to be fed, to want for the

Soft animal of my body to be loved.

I want some mouth

To want to shape caption for its

Animal feel, to describe out how

It beats. Does it come stuttering soft like

Chiffon petals? Does it come beating

With sleepy saccharine drums,

Pulling with its lulling drive

To keep at its beating?

How slow? How sweet? How quiet?

But more so I want

A green, unpracticed poet

To want to make me

A poem.

In the first hour,

I was ecstatic.

Balloons hung high from the lemon trees.

My mothers award winning.

A pinata hung calmly from one of the branches.

Goody bags made by my father,

sprawled out on the table.

A bounce house slowly rises from the ground,

like kingdom come.

I wait for all of my friends,

they’ll be so happy to see my wonderful party.

The second hour

is when my mom tells me they're just late.

But my hopeful smile sticks to my cheeks like glue.

Mom tells me to have a snack,

but I blatantly refuse.

I tell her they're not for me,

but for my friends.

I sit on my chair alone,

watching the gate like a hawk.

The third hour 

is when my neighbor stops by, 

to drop off a gift.

He says sorry but I don’t understand.

The words bubbled up in my brain,

confusing every inch of me.

I tell him they’ll be here,

and I just need to be patient.

They must be on their way.

One more hour of fun,

I tell myself.

In the last hour

I have a snack.

A simple mandarin orange cup,

but to me it tasted like nothing.

Dad says sorry and begins to take down the balloons,

my balloons.

I feel the waterworks start up,

as I slide the birthday hat off my head.

It was once my crown,

now just a piece of plastic.

The party is over.