ADDICT
I wake up early Tuesday to finish my homework.
....I'll just do one. A quick one - that's it for today.
None tomorrow - this time...I mean it.
I spend the rest of the morning engrossed;
zoned out, concentrating only on getting my fix.
I stare straight ahead, the whites of my eyes red and irritated.
I can hardly swallow my mouth is so dry, but I can't be bothered to get something
to drink.
By this point I am totally immersed in the task at hand.
I miss appointments, I skip class - my life
revolves around the high.
I need to do it after meals, before bed, when I wake up, after I shower...
Friends stop down to go to dinner - I hardly
notice them.
They stand in my doorway, visibly annoyed as I ignore them.
"What is wrong with you...." they mutter as they storm off to the
commons.
No one understands and I don't care.
Just a couple more stars- then I'll start studying.
One more level beaten, then I'll leave my room.
There is no hope though. I'm pathetic.
I cannot shake this - I am addicted.
To Mario 64.
Simon Ferrell
Cowboys and Indians
My grandpa wanted to be a Cowboy or an Indian,
but which he couldn't decide.
'Cuz he wanted Wild West shootouts
and also Native pride.
He acted like a rancher
but spoke like an elder man.
He'd shoot his guns into the air
but loved to walk the land.
He thought he could speak Lakota
but did a great John Wayne.
He'd tip his cowboy hat in honor
then swear he'd made it rain.
So which is it? I want to ask him
now that he is gone.
Both, he'd answer, if it matters
as long as their stories still go on.
Jaclyn Sutton
Drag Show
The man at the drag show singing songs by
Gwen Steffani
Is rocking my cosmic world
carefully cut, grey and mauve plaid mini-skirt, with skinny black-line accents
green sweatshirt fitted seductively for style and flair of…
Personality? I suppose
clashing, fluorescent green flapper gone crazy wig
with luminous fairy dust eye make-up
slightly too red hot lipstick
and fresh step-out of the shower shaved legs
standing so comfortably in front of the parade sized rainbow flag
lite-beer in hand, pinky slightly loose and separated with feminine charm
shoulder draped casually against the resting edge of the bar
The laugh of a woman on the town
Standing so comfortably among those most open with themselves
To experimentation
To contemplating the binary gender system, socialization, stimulation, and results
But not right now. Now he sings and dances
A stage cat.
The most comfortable performance I have ever seen.
Peacefully living and celebrating in his native skin.
The feminine graces of women.
Cara Clausing
Stolen Plains People
A plains field of hollow husks stalk
in the stiff December breeze,
rustling and scratching
crying to find
the babes they had borne
swaddled in silken cloth
and carried since creation until
the cultivator
robbed from their arms
their children.
Naomi Bray
The Lie
Renunciation,
The regretful confession:
No retribution.
Fawnie DeLapp
Any Farm, Any Summer Morning
A mischievous breeze races the sun over the
horizon,
startling the stalks of wild brome.
With bowed necks they whisper, knocking heads,
tickling each other awake in preparation.
The farmer strides out to the machine shed,
caressing the tall brome with passing fingertips,
parting the yielding grass with the authority of Moses.
A young boy, perhaps of six or seven years
mimics the majestic gait, straining his tiny legs and heart
to plant himself-exactly-
inside the boot-prints of the one who walks before.
From behind,
the grass rises from genuflection, nodding in approval.
The sun tickling the blades of dewy grass the crisp of air so cold and final
the long, low bellow of the cows the
A farmer walking out to do morning chores-imagery of morning, cultivating, gentleness,
strength, quiet dignity
Mix of rough and tender
Father paves the way for child, sows values and becomes a role-model
The grass as-peasants? Worshippers?
Marissa Kleinhans
The Things I Used to See
I feel the soft May morning
sunlight tumbling across
my shoulders as I sit at
the oak table. A rich, warm
scent rises from the old
stove in the corner-Apple Pie.
I know that scent-it tells
me the crust is golden brown.
I sway gently in the weathered
rocker near the beach in August.
A boisterous seagull declares
his opinion of the day. The crashing
waves caress the battered sands-
my ears ring with the resounding might.
It's November now-I turn
my face upward and feel the
tender tingle of snow crystals
on my cheeks. Warmth rises
from within and I skip across
the ground, enjoying the crisp
crunch of flakes beneath my feet.
Valentine's Day-a day for lovers.
I smell his aftershave before
the thrill of his touch rushes
through me. With outstretched
fingers I stroke his firm jaw,
my lips surrender to the familiar
contour of warmth that has
enveloped them.
May again-I sit forlornly
on the braided rug before the fire.
I feel the outstretched warmth,
hear the fire language of
snaps, hisses, crackles
smell the pungent-sweet
scent of destruction and creation
taste the warm salt of tears
for a world lost-
The things I used to see
Heidi Gelder
Gifted
My mother gave my father her joy
the day he left
but he didn't want her joy,
so he stuffed it in the first sidewalk crack outside of our front door
and my mother, poor thing,
steps on her own joy every time she leaves the house.
I think she thinks he left it there on purpose.
Someday I hope she'll realize-
he left it there for her.
Angela Lucas
Interior Design
The chaos you tried to hide with such volition
emerges in a single moment.
No longer can it be buried deep within the vault of who you are.
It escapes the clenched fists and emerges, greeting the world. Everyone knows,
they inquire and desire to know a secret.
You attempt to put on the mask of bravery,
pretending
it is the nothingness you hope it will be.
Inside, it has staked its claim. It becomes larger than
you are, stronger than you can be. It captures the reins
of a life once held securely, loosely lived with a whimsical temperament.
John Lund
The Unlikely Artist
Ripping open the cover of my notebook,
I am prepared to drown its pressed pulp
in award-winning prose-
but another artist has beaten me to my canvas.
A multitude of legs lends him a fuzzy silhouette
and a trail of slimy insect goo maps his recent quest.
I brush aside any regard for his artistic potential;
this vile creature must be forced off my page.
His legs move in waves as he scuttles
in sporadic, shapeless patterns.
I strike.
He scurries.
The slam of my notebook does no damage.
I strike again,
this time with the weight of a 400 page bridal magazine.
His exoskeleton crunches and I lift the brides.
Some of his legs twitch on my canvas,
the others cling to a mass of snow-colored tulle.
I scrape his pieces into a kleenex,
grant him one last squish,
and wish him safe passage to his watery grave.
Returning to my canvas,
my words have disappeared.
Only an earthy smear of bug remains.
Margaret Spars