Welcome to the spot where aspiring linguistic artists present their word play with ideas, sound, and all things poetic!
BRYNN KEUDELL:
My First Friend
One of my best friends, who will never leave.
A sweet fantasy disconnected from anything and everything, the place to be free and believe. The story that can never stop, full of crystallized sugar and gumdrops, but sometimes blood will stain the plot.
Enter, and a new world will sprout before you, and if you try your best, someday you can add to the world. Dull doorhandles, sad sofas, rough roads, enriched by the love of a word. A collision of sorts, when you meet the page.
For most, the spark is never there, but for few, it can only be described as a firework. The colors popping, the friends you make, the lessons you will learn.
A world of imagination.
EMILY SMITH:
Sometimes on a Beach
Sometimes, on a beach, you can hear waves crashing on rocks
gentle waves brushing the shore
washing up lost items
Sometimes, on a beach, you can step on broken seashells
wash your sandy feet off
just to get sandy again
Sometimes, on a beach, you can smell the crisp ocean air
Your hair is blowing in the breeze
touch your face, and it’s cold
Sometimes on a beach, you can find sticks and stones
See sand castles that slowly crumble
Discover a red plastic sand bucket that has been forgotten
Sometimes, on a beach, you hear seagulls
crying from afar
look up in the air and see them there
Sometimes, on a beach, you see a golden retriever running
hear barking in the distance
see paw prints in the sand.
LIL ZUBER:
Student Athletes
Stay up late to get up early
And are always in a hurry
We never get time for us
But we never make a fuss
Constantly have schoolwork from getting dismissed
And it ends up needing a checklist
The students come to cheer us on
And after a while, we will have won
Someone will get a star athlete or student award
And most of us serve the Lord
He is what drives us forward
And you can see it on the scoreboard
We love to be a part of the team
And sometimes the game gets to the extreme
Our parents love to watch us play
After the games, they always have something to say
We represent our school, that’s why we play our best
But some refs never give us a rest
We can’t wait for the next sports season
Because that’s what gives us a reason.
ZOEY McCLENDON:
The Mouse
In a field of roses,
A small mouse dozes,
Hiding inside a small yellow rose,
The mouse enjoys its repose.
His whiskers rest on the petals,
All covered in pollen,
Sitting like they’re frozen,
They almost look like crystals.
A breeze pushes the mouse,
Which makes him rouse,
And startles him,
Leaving him quite dim.
Confused by the sudden jitter,
The mouse begins to quiver,
But once he feels secured,
He lies down in his bed.
ACE SANGSTER:
The Weak Woman’s Passion
The man and the boy were sitting together near the fire, sharing stories.
“Sir,” the boy asked, “why does my mama stay in bed?”
“Because she is injured.” the man replied
“How is she injured?” the boy asked again
“Why, her wings were cut off!” the man replied again
“But my mama never had wings.” the boy retorted “why else would she never tell me of soaring the sky?”
“You’re right,” the man agreed, “she never had wings for you.”
“So why does mama stay in bed?” the boy asked for a second time
“She’s injured.” the man once again replied
“But what is her injury?” the boy asked
“Her legs were cut off.” the man answered
“But she still has legs,” the boy retorted once more “how else would she make me my food?”
“You’re right,” the man once again agreed, “she still has legs for you.”
“Sir I’m getting rather frustrated,” the boy admitted, “why does mama stay in bed?” the boy asked
“Because she’s injured,” the man repeated a third time,
“But how did she get injured?” the boy asked again, exasperated.
“Because she was passionate.” the man finally answered
“she was passionate about everything and everyone she loved,” the man continued
“She was passionate about art,
She was passionate about love,
She was passionate about her family,
Then she was passionate about hating her family,
She was passionate about colors and literature,
Then she was passionate about numbers and intelligence.
Your mother was a passionate person, and that passion came in the form of wings,
But the more she would fly she had less time to walk
and the more she would walk the less time she had to fly,
So her wings and her legs fought each other over her time, not realizing they were one in the same.
They fought and fought until eventually her wings were featherless stubs-
-and her legs were unable to walk.
Now she lives her life in bed, mourning her limbs and her life, now forever a life of repair.
Any repair she makes to her wings is used to cause destruction to her legs,
And any repair made to her legs is used to cause destruction to her wings.
So she chose to repair her legs only for you, while her wings shrivel away,
Hoping she’ll last long enough for you to grow your own legs and wings” the man finished.
…
“Oh.”
Welcome to the spot where aspiring linguistic artists present their word play with ideas, sound, and all things poetic!