Poetry

The Roads I’ve Taken

By Mitch Patel

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And what will I have to choose

I thought of everything I could

I even tried to consider what others would

Come on, what will I have to lose?

I thought of choices from years before

I want to be just as fair

But in the end, what will help me more

A game of life, what’s my score?

The end result may be despair

But risks not made prevent growth

Scared of the choices from the past

Of an outcome I hope not to loathe

To learn to grow is my own oath

The choices I’ll make are sure to last.

Two roads diverged with my own future

Be safe is my preference

The best choice is what I picture

It is what I want to capture

And that has made all the difference.

I Will Find My Voice

By Jordanna Garland

I’m quiet but I have a lot to say

I keep the words inside my mouth and mind

When will I find my voice?

I may be small and still trying to find my voice,

Writing the words on paper - words I struggle to say

Words on paper - no longer in my mind

Sometimes doubt comes in and blocks my mind

It distracts me while I find my voice

And doubt sure has a lot to say

But the voice I seek has a lot to say so I’ll tell the doubt to mind its business and write my words anyway.

Daphne

By Miranda Jones

(Inspired by the character of Daphne from Z.Z. Packer’s “Brownies”)

I don’t understand why the other kids act the way they do. I guess that’s fair though, because they don’t understand me either. I’m the “quiet one”, which to them means I’m the unsociable one, the mean one, the weird one. The one who doesn’t want friends.

That’s not true though. Not at all. I want friends just as badly as every other kid. I want someone who gets me, someone who I can rely on, someone who doesn’t act like they need to “fix” me. I don’t need fixing, I’m not broken or dented like others think. I’m just a different shape.

I’ve never been able to connect with other kids. Their voices are too loud, too unrestrained, and their bright clothes and light-up toys are painful to my eyes. These things are supposed to be cool, but instead they just set my nerve-endings ablaze, burning my brain and sending boiling tears down my cheeks. It hurts my head, and when others ask what’s wrong with me, my heart also hurts, because I can’t answer the question. I’m not sure why I can’t understand them, why my brain overheats, why I can’t be normal. Adults call me special, but I’m starting to think that being called that isn’t a compliment.

The only time I truly know peace is when I’m staring down at my little monochrome notebook, the scritch-scratch of my pen against paper a lullaby to me. I share my every thought to the little notebook, and it always accepts them. It never judges or laughs at me. It never pressures me or patronizes me. It doesn’t grow bored when I have nothing to say. It’s my truest friend, much truer than the kids who claim to care about me and then treat me like a fragile doll that will bend to their will. I don’t acknowledge those people anymore. They say what they want and I neither confirm nor deny. I let them believe what they want and never correct them. Skimming eyes and assumptions are better than staring looks and judgements.

I just want to be alone, curled up with only my kind little notebook for company. Maybe someday, if I’m really lucky, I’ll find someone who knows to not make sudden movements. Someone who doesn’t try to touch me or call me rude when I shy away from their hugs. Someone who can shut up and actually listen to the few words I manage to choke out.

Maybe instead of holding hands, we can hold the sides of my notebook together, connected by my spiral-bound heart. I think I’d like that.

A Song of Myself

By Luke Jarrell

I’d never been one to speak out or cause trouble

At the cost of subjecting myself to the way of the world.

I’d always resented those who spoke of themselves,

For I trusted my skills to make themselves apparent,

But now I only resent myself

For forfeiting my identity to first impressions and passing glances

And now I have become just another soldier

Serving in the army of the void.

It’s All Over

By Miranda Jones

I’m about to explode, and I don’t know,

but this feeling is getting old.

Everything is wrong, and people ask if I’m alright,

and there’s no right answer anymore.

Or maybe I just don’t want to say,

all the same, I need a change.

The world’s deranged, and I need a sign that everything’s gonna be okay,

but hope can’t be found on a twitter feed

and I can’t breathe.

The words here are substitutes for screams because I’m just so mad.

This is not the way it was meant to be.

And soon mania will take over

and I’ll start laughing though the world might be over

and I just want this feeling to be over.

This poem is over.

I think I need a nap.

It’s Not Delivery, It’s DiGiorno's

By Farid Frisby

We gaze at the flawless clouds thoughtless bound,

Longing for quick thrills to fill the ill void,

Sounds of cynics whirring since the playground,

Freud told us that our dreams will be destroyed,

Fabricate hated fates by consuming -

Needles to sew ourselves to feeble extras,

Grooming evil arts of business booming,

Vendetta for Trump but bought Alexa,

Fake news Uncle Sam screws us with eggplants,

Open the hood of the engine that could,

Ants on a large scale paying loans and grants,

Childhood goals and ideas burning in firewood,

We're born scorned and formed to do useless things,

The endless life of strife for human beings.

Untitled

By Robin R. Kucharczyk

I found a house finch this morning

In the bird bath, alone in its lifelessness.

I gave it back to Mother Nature.

Rest, feathered one, in that thicket by the creek.

I walked farther

Between the hospital and the creek

Between pandemic death and the cormorant

On the rock, surveying the current.

I moved away

From others on the path

A sign of respect in these troubled times

Though underwritten by fear.

Alone on that path

Like the finch in the thicket

But only one of us has found peace.

Hell Grows Flowers Too

By Jordanna Garland

A flower bloomed in the depths of hell

Its petals singed on the edges

The plant needed no water - only a match to fuel the fire

Watch it burn

An eternal flame

The name of this flower isn’t important

What's important is what this flower represents

A candle in the darkness,

A smile on the face of a sick man,

A home for the homeless

Love in the damaged and damned.

Condemned for eternity is what hell is...but this flower,

It grew and grew and grew and grew

And kept growing,

So much so that it didn't feel the singes on its edges anymore.

No.

No, it was determined to grow so high,

Past the hazy orange, red, black sky

That damn charred sky.

Into and out of the ground.

To finally see the light.

To see the sun.

And it did.

And it was good.

No! Better than good

Great!

The flower actually quite liked it a lot.

It was warm instead of hot.

Comforting instead of scalding.

Everything the light touched was this flower’s kingdom.

Freedom was its name.

But that’s not the important part.

See, you had to know the journey

The walk out of hell

To know that this flower’s dwelling place couldn’t interrupt its power.

And guess what?

There’s a flower inside of you

Your heart.

That part of you that continues to beat and beat and beat and beat

When you feel defeated by the world.

Listen to it.

It’ll help you.

Help you see it through.

On your way out

Of hell.