Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Caroline Bird:
True Colors
I am sprawling greenery. I am nature.
I am Mother Earth. I am rewarded
with a front-row seat at my execution.
Down the barrel of a gun. See red.
Red for life – wrong. Red for death.
Red for blood that seeps across the floor.
Ringing phones and bullet casings.
Glint in the rising sun – no, flashlights.
One bulb, ten, fifty. They come for us.
A flood of light, one for each. The
boys in blue, here to restore harmony.
They are balance. They are not us.
They do see our spirit, our aura,
glowing purple. Neon. They take us
to a place for healing. The walls
have no color, no voice — . Healing
should be orange, not colorless.
Swallowed by blackness, we do not
see. Are not seen. The world restarts.
They do not learn. The next time,
there will be no colors. No life,
no healing, no spirit. No nature,
no harmony, no spirit. We are gone.
Invisible, we have no meaning.
The Overflow
I do nothing halfway:
Top Dog, Over the Moon,
HBIC, Kingpin, Big Enchilada
stuffed with cheese. Stretch
myself to cover everything.
The Glass Half-Full is
actually overflowing, because
I cannot keep it together.
The deluge overwhelms me,
and I am spent. I let it all
go – the Puppy Love, Love Lost,
Hero’s Hubris, Mea Culpa; she
holds a cup to the overflow,
drinking what I can’t hold in.
In My Head
I am in my head again.
I reach out to you, I clasp my hand.
You were here but you have vanished
into thin air, so maybe you are
nowhere or everywhere.
My hand strains instead
across an unending chasm.
Can you see the bottom?
I drop my heart
into the abyss that becomes the sea
because it was always the sea and
it always has been the sea. They say
it is my life and I am the only
one who can live it except they
don’t know that I do not live,
I peel away layers
of myself, or maybe just my skin.
It burns off, because instead of
avoiding the lava
I jump off the couch and
in with both feet.
I molt, I shift into a new
person each time. I am a
new person, I am a missing person.
Can you grieve for someone
who is not gone? Can you grieve
your past self? When people say
they’ll stay forever, they lie and
it is always a lie, and that’s the truth.
My body is a shell and my
brain is pink slime, and my
heart is four bloody rooms
and I know the truth.
The truth clings to my bones,
no matter how many layers
I shed. Under that truth
lies a gaping hole, a
vast nothing. It’s just
aching empty space.
Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Karina Borowicz:
Light as a Stone
A stone heavy with anger sits in my
gut now, turning over as ash and berries
fill the spaces surrounding its shape.
Each word of denial feeds the
stone fire, fried amber
growing large and onerous.
A wrinkled west wind marks
the skin of park-playing children,
their shrieks of untethered joy
cracks my chest.
Is there a vial?
A remedy that turns
rock to rubble? Perhaps
a belly full of laughter.
Seer
Blinded he sees
what others only wish
forging pathways of intent.
Meek yet strong
foolish but wise as
villagers flock to hear
and give praise.
Laden he sits and watches his prophecies take form unable
to help or warn or exalt.
Afflicted are the legs of
the man who straddles
two worlds.
Potters
Cracked and dry are the working hands of the Indian man
whose legs ache with stillness and sand
from forming malleable shapes. I have forgotten
how tan his hands used to be. The white
and speckled layer of work rises up to
his forearms, covering age and black ink,
and under his wizard hands bends bowls and plates and
jars alike. His gaze dances over his creating carving out
the future patterns of distinction. The mattress deepened with time
and familiarity welcomes his resolve.
(Read) Between the Vines 