Elementia ars poetica


Still Life

By Haley Renee Born

I’m sitting in the middle of nowhere, on a hill looking toward the horizon. No tripod, just crossed legs and my elbows resting on my knees, holding an old camera filled with darkroom film.

carpet girl

By Yasi Farahmandnia

in this town words hold hostages not meaning. if i cry i will bleed, and i will lose, integrity and i will rip apart the frontdrop that has made my portraits pretty for (maybe) minutes on end.


By Maddie Jones

words like amorphous chunks of metal they rest on a shelf in my brain and beg to be molded

I long to hold them in the fire of my skull till they are soft and malleable

The Early Storm

By Rebecca Meyer

In solitude of the night, with help of the early storm, you find peace and utter relaxation. Tearing down the limits of your imagination, making room for the inspiration, the imaginative power of your soul.

Just a Thought

By Kelly O’Neill

I don’t know why, Maybe it was just a thought.

‘Less it was not to just sit here, And have my mind rot.

Writing on paper, With the scratch of pen.

Thinking of nothing, ‘Cept the thoughts of men.

My mind an empty corridor, And yet still full.

Words Can Move Mountains

By Rachel Franklin

There is a thing that is stronger than yourself, That is from you; its plan is one of stealth. White-hot insults out of a mouth are poured, Never underestimate the power of a word!

Poetry Is...

By Heather Martin

Poetry is nothing But everything

Dances in dreams That vanish when you wake Coffee and cream With a taste of cake

Simplicity found In a hard drive Books bound To stay in an archive

Excuses made With fake emotion Ghosts that Start a commotion

Waiting to be Struck

By Matthew Morefield Tanzer

Sometimes I just sit there, waiting to be struck, with one poetic thought. Other times I am struck, with a line to my poem, and I have nowhere, to write it down. Inspiration comes from, nature and the world. It comes from the people, I meet, the ones I love and hate. Inspiration comes to me, on i


By Bailey Fi

The pencil soars across the black page painting imagination, uniqueness illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades rainbows tango in the sky translucent beads of water descend f

Subject: Passion

By Jessie Hovis

Breathing in. The lungs expand, chest tight. The air catches in my throat. Breathing out. The air slithers out, my eyes going, facing the paper. It is blank, void of anything but a red line and blue lines. My mind is already at work. What is it going to be?


By Sasha Baldwin

right now, I am a rough draft. I am left here to be looked back on and revised


By Kayla Wiltfong

It is a wall. It is stiff, blank. Unmoving.  It guards the paradise  That she knows belongs there.

It is a stone Waiting for her, the sculptor,  To make it mean something.

Sometimes it glows with urgency. Other times it is dull, Craving the contact of a human hand.

Signs of Life

By Julia Wakefield

The form of letters slop and curve on a page like a human body.  White paper, bare skin, The line of a belt below a belly button: the line of a notebook just below a sentence. 

A Writer's Rhythm

By Gabrielle Brazzell

Sometimes all it takes is A lyric of a song  A fragment of a conversation  A moment captured in a photograph  Then suddenly there you are  Using whatever you can  Napkins, paper, your own skin  They become the thing  You inscribe your soul onto  The words flying above your head in a frenzy  Like

Outside and Inside

By Gabby Gillespie

Being a creator isn’t easy. Your inside thoughts and feelings are always on display to everything on the outside.

room 502

By Amanda Pendley

If time could be measured in words I would handwrite novels until my knuckles bled Analyze every single piece written by Steven King twice Type poems so complex so that the meaning gets lost Construct every screenplay to give you the ending you deserve Switch my major to songwriting and throw in

Writer’s Comatose

By Abbey Roschak

it’s been a while         since I found encouragement         to rid myself of this         writer malnourishment         I guess I lost myself         trying to explore the world         yet I still found my mind in the gutters         and the oil stains         left on the street in front of my

4 a.m.

By Magda Werkmeister

a house can feel like a whole world when you’re lying in your bed at 4 a.m., too early to rise in a coup against the lingering stars, too late for the soft black of the backs of eyelids to last long enough, light switch flipped up so as not to have to stare at the dark but staring at the slow mea

how to write a poem

By Miah Clark

snap the barrel of a boy fully loaded with good intentions  and shoot yourself.

break your own heart, into jigsaw puzzle pieces  so you can practice the art of putting yourself back together.


By Abigail Cottingham

The way they teach poetry in schools

Is not the only way it can be written

               Structured stanzas


  parallel pantoums

Put a limit on how poets can      speak what they FEEL

    Creativity cannot be defined