If I were God, I would not have cursed the earth. If I were God, I would have dwelt among the ponds and peaks I made instead of leaving it all behind. What
The watchmaker sorrowing as his shop’s aflame hears a moaning child call out his name. Without hesitation, he runs back through the frame, only to find that the child’s to blame.
Winner of the English Language and Literature Division Creative Writing Contest - Poetry The mountain range resembles a particularly dimpled red potato, or purple sand dunes that could be changed by the mere
Runner up in the English Language and Literature Division Creative Writing Competition - Poetry I gazed upon the burden of my flesh That clung about my soul like dirty rags: A hated cloak
Anytime the crows are singing, The fields are full and barely clinging To their ripened form. 'Tis when breath is full of flavor Of all that's good to seek and savor When the
The problem with a dreamer Is I dream a web of Futures for myself— Five full lifetimes of Potential, Scratching the surface Of the vastness of Impact Or Service or Knowledge— A craving
If the world stopped spinning, Maybe you would hold me for a minute… And there wouldn’t be the what ifs of tomorrow Or the should haves of yesterday Or the maybe wills
I am trying to remember. How did I heal After Mama’s death? I have not forgotten Truth, but a tad, Faith to believe the Truth. The churches tell me to remember Where
Songs are like birds in my chest Unlocked by warmth and laughter, Bursting free in a fast beat, Alone and free in the empty sky, Suddenly I’m breathing. Poems are like dark
I used to Come home from school, Drop my books and run Through fields and woods. Boundaries big As the horizon. The horizon hefted by hills— Hills I took in stride, Bare feet
Higgledy-Piggledy Hades’ Persephone Six Months in Underworld Darkness and Cling. Ceres, or Demeter, Extra-possessively Calls for her Daughter to Usher the Spring.
If you walk a winter’s night, Listen, and you will hear The shrieking wind evade your sight And cry into your ear. It whips away at flowers, And the roses bow their
“The value of the myth is that it takes all the things we know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by ‘the veil of familiarity.’” -C.S. Lewis
This is the worst of times. I, a single dog in possession Of a particularly dirty tennis ball, Am in want of you. I wanted to play yesterday, And the larks, bravely singing,
I made some assumptions about you From the first time we met. Most of them turned out to be true, But I have more to find out yet. From the first time we
He didn’t know where he could go He just stood alone on the shore. The boat was swamped and the oar was lost The fog made his vision poor. Stuck in the
“Erik, dae ye ken the wind Roving o’er Swaeden? Wha’s the cloud, the billow’d smoke Wi’ danger heavy-laden?” Erik didna ken the wind; He didna ken the smoke. An’ nae
Look at that tremble: your fingers Clutching your coffee cup like a mast, Like a slice of Still amid the Turning— The knife scratch, the child’s cackle Of those playing the “them”
My friends played in the church stairwell To let the time go by. I would have gone if I was brave, But fear left me standby. I wanted to go up the stairs,
No darkness covered my own eyes; the darkness was within. A bitter, cold, unwavering mass that was my covered sin. Every crevice filled with black, each thought perfused with ebony, These thoughts collecting