Poem
Writing
The World's Paint
By Bailey TullochYou may think that color paints the Earth, but really you're wrong.
The things we say have been the culprits all wrong
Take this book, take a look inside,
Don’t you see the things we should use with pride?
They fill our hearts, our minds, our soul,
Connection at First Sight
By Annie BarryI read about you
in my horoscopes and in a relatable tweet last week
as soon as I saw you, I knew those were written about you
All Things Terribly Lovely
By Hannah HollidayWhen you asked me who I thought you were and I didn’t have an answer, I was worried. Why does my brain not instantly generate poetry when I think about how beautiful you are? Now that I have an answer I am terrified.
Remember Summer?
By AnonymousHe’s got you stuck in his teeth.
Remember, summer?
Well, tell me:
Why’d you leave him and I alone in the blue tiled bathroom?
Remember, summer?
The one with the blood stained floors that we sat on for hours.
Well, tell me:
In Orchards of Lemon Trees
By Kate Rosein orchards of lemon trees
we tiptoe, under the hanging yellow fruit
in blue moonlight, we will stay until
orange light leads us inside
Disconnect
By Samiya RasheedMy mother mourns leaving her own country so deeply it runs through her veins into mine. Bangladesh is what she knows and what she loves. She spends her time showing me her culture: spinning through dances, running through poetry, and wading through history.
Dream State Slip-Gown
By Isabelle ShachtmanThe sound of the train past midnight
And a clear sort of light seek my room and cheeks
Leaving the layers of darkness, moon, and house light stale and stark
As if the lighter colored sheaths of air in the dark are unbreathable
Baba’s Garden
By Clara RabbaniEgg-yolks blooming in serenity
baba’s palms turn upwards
black dirt falling on the sun.
The fruit of baba’s hands
covered in spines
twisted but not the wicked way
that punctures skin.
Serpentine limbs extend in search of
hands to hold
poem for my killer
By Yasi Farahmandniasometime before the clock hit eleven,
i thought of you.
i imagined the threat your caressing fingers possess
as they trace targets on the side of my belly.
The Stories They Tell
By Clara RabbaniI envy the stories
They tell.
Of the East
And the West.
Of bare feet,
Guava trees,
Roasted fava beans.
Of tin water pails
That held curly-haired children
To keep the dust off their feet.
Museum of Broken Street Signs
By Meghana LakkireddyI miss running down the street with you at half past 3
When your dad dropped you off after softball practice on Sunday afternoons.
And there was never anything more than grass stains on white pants and empty soda cans that my mom told me to throw away two hours ago.
Forgotten Memory
By Ada HellerI can’t remember
why pink ice cream
smells of lakes
and trips to grandma’s house
I have no memory
of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream melting
in my mouth
But sometimes
I lick my fingers
just to make sure
I’ve gotten the last drops
she took my poems
By Annie Barrywhy do i allow myself to participate in something as dangerously stupid as Love?
allow myself to participate
i say
as if i don’t
put myself up to bat
in a room full of automatic pitch machines
Life Slow Mo
By Ada HellerWet hair clings to my cheeks
salty from the rain
Drops like tears slide down my nose
as the gray of the sky peers down upon me
Barefoot in the grass
for a few moments
I forget about the life I am crushing below
With my eyes closed
Secrets Scrawled on the Astragal
By Brett SeatonIt’s strung together through the fibers on the back of the lost
Dreams that leave you sweat-stained and hopeful
How dare we doubt ourselves?
In the midst of our mist and making, we think to miss?
Maybe it was the Wind
By James KnoflicekMaybe it was the wind that blew her to the ground.
Maybe a subtle hollow she hadn’t noticed brought her down.
Either way, she ends up in the dirt.
Earth covers the soft pink fabric draped over her
Like paint splattered on a porcelain canvas.
Shadows Need Light
By Hiba FaruqiA ransacked village in India is where my lineage began
Women.
Women, I will
And
Can never, ever know.
Tribulations my western brain
Cannot comprehend.
They made me.
I have the blood of
Hundreds
Where I’m From
By Emme MackenzieI am from
the expressions of my people
flattened nose and slits for eyes
leathery skin and cricks in my back
each feature of mine
a reflection of my family heritage
Amateur Magicians
By Amanda PendleySomehow, I pull the words out of my mouth like the colorful scarves inside the sleeve of an amateur magician
And we are both trying so hard
To save our best magic trick to use on ourselves
So that everyone can stop asking so much of us
mother and earth
By Katja Rowanbent backs
grasses bent in a tweak of fingers
bent my fingers bent my bones
my toes in
earth sweating dew
digging a way out
sweetness
sucking on a single clover
African Violets
By Callan LathamI will count them all
shards of glass in the mirror
every part of me adds
up to nothing
I’m standing in front of violets
in front of a Renaissance painting
and wondering what do I have
Little Red
By Ada HellerLet’s make one thing clear:
there wasn’t a big bad wolf.
Not in my story.
There was no screaming
and running of little girls.
This is an old story;
One where
the structure of power
that had devoured
the generations of women