Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Langston Hughes:
Stare
The pills,
Crushed to snow,
Wrapped me in a hug and took me home.
Balance
Just stop for one moment.
Let yourself feel the energy of the earth beneath your feet.
Let your feet stand firm against the ground.
Stand firm against the echo of no.
Stand firm despite the howling wind of fear
Stand firm for chromatic ambitions.
Stand firm.
Gone
Where have all the children gone?
Perhaps they’re stacked
somewhere on the ocean floor.
Or still breathing –
Locked behind a door?
Did they choke, grabbed and tossed?
Or playing hide and seek –
silently and forever lost?
Maybe they were stolen
by a hefty oaf of beard
Or have they simply disappeared?
Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Phil Kaye:
The Big Questions
When I was a kid, I asked the big questions.
Do you think there’s someone else doing the exact same thing as me, right now?
Is there a little girl in China looking out at the same stars?
Is he in Australia or Africa instead? Does the moon look the same there?
If there are so many people in the world, what are the chances that I would exist?
If there’s so much time in the world, why was I born now?
Who decided to make me, me?
My parents always looked at me like I was crazy, but they always answered.
There could be, but it’s very unlikely.
It’s daytime in China. She couldn’t be looking at the stars.
It’s daytime in Australia and Africa too. The moon looks the same everywhere.
God knew that this was the right time for you.
You were born so that we could love you.
Why are you, you? You just are.
Eventually I stopped asking questions. I thought maybe if I did, life wouldn’t feel so overwhelming. It’s hard to go day by day, asking questions about the very nature of existence.
That’s a hard life for a kid.
Instead I found small things to give each day meaning.
Dear Diary, today I found the most perfect dandelion ever to exist. I blew it away and the seeds drifted away in the wind so effortlessly. Floating on air. I’d like to be like a dandelion.
Dear Diary, I saw some tadpoles in the retention pond behind our house. A little pocket of earth filled with water in the last storm, and they’re just swimming around in that little puddle. I watched them for an hour before Papa made me come inside.
Dear Diary, my cat curled up on my lap today. She was warm and sleepy and she let me scratch her ears. I couldn’t move until she woke up and gave me permission.
Small things give life meaning.
I can’t decide if accepting this means that I am an adult now,
and I should be proud, or if it means giving up on those questions
and abandoning my inner child.
Maybe I should ask again. Maybe time changes things.
So, what makes me, me?
Boxes
I like order.
I think there’s a box for each little thing. Everything has a place.
These boxes can be simple: Yellow things.
Sunflowers. Post-It Notes. Canaries.
The boxes can change: Things I Hate to Eat.
Brussel sprouts. Bananas. Soup.
Some boxes are just filled to the brim with more boxes.
That one there is labelled “Friends,”
but inside you’ll find it hundreds of smaller boxes.
Old Friends. Stocker Friends. Work Friends.
Friends Who Will Stay For Life.
Friends Who Have Faded Away.
Lost.
Some people might not like my system, but it gives me order.
Once, someone asked me: “Why do you always qualify things?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Well, why does it have to be,
My Friend From School, why can’t it just be Friend?”
She couldn’t see the system. My Friend From School is still a Friend.
It’s a filing system, see?
I filed that conversation away under “Pointless Questions.”
Tomorrow, I think I’ll try to empty the box labelled “Things For the River Leaves.”
Goodbyes
Goodbyes are never easy.
Wish for rain so that your tears can hide behind something,
anything but the sadness you feel.
Are you crying? No, it’s raining.
Because someone, somewhere decided that crying shows weakness.
Well if tears are weakness, then God is weak.
The sky cries, doesn’t it?
But it makes everything smell fresh,
and when the clouds clear, there’s nothing but green.
God’s tears make lime and olive.
God’s tears make forest.
God’s tears make life.
So cry. Let the tears stream.
Roll your windows down and make the wind change their tracks –
from eye to nose to eye to ear.
Scream into the wind until you’re hoarse.
Then let it go.
Smash your rearview mirror. Don’t watch the road behind get longer.
Just watch the one up front stretch out endlessly.
Gravel and dirt and asphalt.
Marvel at the green, breathe in the fresh after-rain smell
that you know is really just bacteria.
Languish in the Earth and give Her your worries.
Let your hand drift out the window and ride the air.
(Read) Between the Vines 