|
|
|
Opa
Time ticks, the inevitable is coming
I see mom less and less
The Opa I know and love is slowly fading away
Visiting is easy as he is not far away
It becomes harder and harder to know whats coming
Each day he remembers less and less
The more I hear the less
I understand, the words and fancy terms jumbled away
The best has been here, the worst is coming
He slid into a peaceful sleep a slow fade to black
surrounded by family, In a better place now.
-Tristin Sweeney
|
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Words I Write Take this gift I give to you, as a memory of my heart. The words I write, reminding me of you. As a memory of my heart, the words you sing are reminding me of you. I’ll miss you if you go. The words you sing are etching in my mind. I’ll miss you if you go. So please keep etching in my mind. Take this gift I give to you. And please keep the words I write.
-Megan Rosenthal |
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| The Subway
By: Emma Hewson
I walked down the stairs.
The immediate smell of smoke overpowered me.
One at a time we walk through the revolving arms.
I go down the escalator,
and around the corner.
I hear the sound of a sad soul singing,
and loud banging.
As it goes racing by me
I cannot bear to look.
It comes to a stop and,
I hesitantly step on.
A man in a long black coat
is lecturing about the homeless and less fortunate.
He reminds me of Dr. Martin Luther King preaching to a crowd.
I sit down and hold on to the railing
with my head looking down.
I am afraid to look up.
It is going so fast it is like a cheetah.
It comes to a short stop for seconds,
then takes off into the tunnel of darkness.
|
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| When you’re not good at poetry When you’re not good at poetry you stare at your paper and write nothing When you’re not good at poetry your poems don’t make any since When you’re not good at poetry you wait for an idea that never comes When you’re not good at poetry your poems are pointless and have no meaning. When you’re not good at poetry you are like me, someone who doesn’t know where to start or where to end, Or know how to use your words to make them blend. But hey, if you just write what’s on your mind You can write a poem anytime.
-Brock Wesolek |
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| The Beach (Italian Sonnet)
I get to my room after a long car ride
and walk out my balcony to see the beach,
the sand so white, I think it’s bleached!
I can only hope that it stays low-tide
because I want room to play in the sand!
I walk out to the putt-putt course to meet my new neighbor,
who else would it be than a big, ugly gator?
What else should I do with the day at hand?
The evening is here, a perfect collage of colors on display,
I look out wondering, is Edward Teach still sailing the Atlantic Ocean?
I also see a group of dolphins out to play!
Is there really a better place to go on vacation?
The day is ending, a boat docking at the bay,
Since its night time, I think it’s time for a celebration!
- Casey Young
|
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| A tritina to Americas’ duchess Nothing can compare to you. Everything shows bland against. Whenever I close my eyes I picture her. Your citizens know of Venus’s envy towards her. Orbits shining in the grandeur that you Run and try to go win against. Kindred spirits competing against Common dreams and aspirations around her Inspiring wantabes like me and you. Tomorrow her beauty will still glow. Yellow moon radiance against your beckoning call to me and you. - Josh Tyson |
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| My Butterfly
Not far in the woods
Golden drops of yellow sunlight shine deep into vibrant green leaves,
dancing colors fill the spaces where the leaves do not meet.
There. You fly. Black, orange, and the most purest white. My butterfly.
Golden drops of yellow sunlight shine deep into vibrant green leaves
Hidden behind bright, lively fuchsia dragon snaps:
there. You fly. Black, orange, and the most purest white. My butterfly.
Soaring with nearly all the grace in the world. Free from worry.
Hidden behind bright, lively fuchsia dragon snaps:
not far in the woods,
soaring with nearly all the grace in the world. Free from worry,
dancing colors fill the spaces where the leaves do not meet.
My dear butterfly.
- Emily Gutierrez
|
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| My Mountain
The eye warming,
high, rocky cliffs
that make me feel like an ant.
The never ending trees
as far as the eye can see,
dancing in harmony
to the music that flows in the wind.
Birds chirping,
squirrels at play,
toads croaking.
Nature is on the prowl,
yet,
all is calm.
The feeling,
that I am at home,
makes me feel
like this is my mountain.
- Kevin Yascur
|
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Walk Beyond
after Dr. Abbott's poetry
Why can’t you learn to walk beyond
The porch steps of the soul?
Although it’s not so simple
I only wish
To lie under the willow tree of love with only you.
“I fireball you”
Completes the thought but nothing can compare.
For without you,
The girl at the end
Is simply just not there.
- Maggie Steranko |
| sban
|
|
|
|
|
|
| Geometry
The paper stares at me accusingly.
How dare you not know the value of x?
It snarls at me. Sneering and jeering,
My pencil is not much solace.
These proportions aren't going to solve themselves, you know?
I do know. Shut up.
But that's as far as my knowledge shall travel.
I do not know where to place x.
I do not know if I can withstand the weight of this gargantuan book.
I certainly do not know how Atlas managed the world.
The curlicues of clean, crisp lines
deny my access to the solution.
Did Pythagoras possess my qualms?
Will I ever know?
The only thing that is thought of being taught
is his theorem.
Go figure.
- Rebecca Kuzmanovich
|
| sban
|
|
|
|