POETRY

WINNER of the Poetry Award:

Ode to the Girl I Only Saw Once

by Kyleigh James

Sun-kissed, red-lipped, bitch.

At first glance I fell harder for her then any boy who has previously broken my heart.

She pulled up beside me

And gave me a grimace.

A cigarette hung loosely from between her teeth,

In that moment, that’s all I wanted to be

Between her teeth

To be the ash she shakes off

With two fingers on the bud.

Using her thumb to tap me on the edge of the tray.

Even if it’s only to rid herself of me

At least, I would get to feel her fingers

The engine roared of her old mustang, that she drove way too fast

Black, like the streaks in her blonde hair

Curled like bubblegum around the forefinger

Eyes like a sparrow’s wing

I cannot tell if I loved her or if I wanted to be her.

The girl doesn’t pretend to be anything she is not

She doesn’t need to tell you she is a bad bitch

The thought doesn’t even cross her mind

There are no promises in her eyes

Nothing left lingering on her tongue

The girl tells you she doesn’t love you and she means it

She doesn’t love you

But I’ve never been good at listening

And I cannot help wonder everything she is

She recklessly swerves between each passerby, after the light turns green

And I think that’s how she feels alive.

Sonnet on Buxton Park

by Ryan Corcoran

Why have gorgeous parks become our graveyards?

Every flower a memoriam to

Faceless names, trying coldly to safeguard

Yester memory, no hope of anew.

Granite, bronze, iron, bar earth from free life.

Held down by chains of donated sorrow.

“Never forget,” “in our hearts,” “loving wife,”

Separate strife clasps onto tomorrow.

We are so fearful of death’s dreadful tides,

Taking the world’s breath to avoid its pull.

We block waves from their destined coast to bide

While displaced dark water coats harbor pier full.

Is not nature enough to honor prime?

Not binding nature in memory’s grime.

Carl’s Adventure Pal, Gideon

by Hazel Morgan-Fine

It was a green, scaly chameleon

Or at least it pretended to be

But really

It was stuffed

With a yellow lumped crest

And a prehensile cotton tail.

His iridescent scales

Inlaying in the fabric.

The shimmer has since faded

In the long years I’ve had it.

Yet, in my mind’s eye

I still see it just the same.

Slumping gently on the edge 

Of my mother’s 

Wooden check out table

In her spring craft booth.

The rough finish leaving

Splinters in his rump.

Next to Carl was a stuffed goat

Attempting to be wild and mangy.

Tufted grey fur

Protruding from the chin

And the head between horns

Embroidered with stripes.

We positioned them to hold hands,

My best friend and I.

Five years later,

Still on my college bed

Carl slumps

One green stuffed hand

Lays outstretched

For his pal, Gideon

In another college dorm

Very far away.

A Note

by Kenneth Norris

He said, She said

Someone passed me a piece of paper couldn’t

say it out loud, i guess

The note read like a cheap cologne; its

pungent, vile words

violate my eyes

too strong. i drop it. take a

step back

nothing was said, but there’s a

ringing in my ears

A string of thoughts A

venom most potent

A dare to exist elsewhere; in

truth, a threat

Why must my mere existence speak dread into

the ears

of those that fear me?

What meager menace do I cause to

deserve the vengeance

of the unknown?

the unfeeling steer the silent slaughter of a

troubled few

the trouble?

A struggle to escape the rubble,

when pebbles and pebbles cause a

spectacular debacle,

the pinnacle of generations of persecution

a few choice unspoken phrases

a thought makes me forget to shower for days I’ve

made a spectacle of myself

Manic dismay

a shortlived craze an

abrupt end

a tragedy

a note left on display

It’s Dark Outside

by Mollie Hinkle

It’s dark outside. 

I’m having a lot of trouble 

seeing what’s in front of me.

I’m unsure if that’s because

it looks different

or it is different.

Has it always looked this way 

out here?

I feel as though I am

doubting

my own cognition;

my own senses. 

Has it always looked this way out here?

Maybe it’s the lighting. 

Maybe I’m just not

used to

what I’m seeing.

Though,

it feels wrong to say 

that’s the truth. 

Maybe it is the lighting.

I’ll grab a flashlight.

Oh.

This feels wrong. 

This is wrong. 

I don’t remember 

it being like this. 

I don’t remember this

at all. 

This is so wrong.

When did this happen?

I swear

I’ve been looking

this whole time.

Am I doubting

my own cognition?

This is not possible. 

I would have

recognized

the problem before now. 

We all would’ve.

Right?

In what world

would I 

have missed this?

It’s right there. 

It couldn’t have 

been here

this whole time. 

I would have noticed. 

I know 

I would’ve.

I might be sick.

This air feels 

impossibly

thick.

It surrounds me. 

It paws at me – 

why can I feel it?

I think I’m doubting 

my own cognition. 

No, I’m certain

I’m doubting myself.

I know what’s real. 

I know what’s 

possible.

And

this isn’t. 

I shouldn’t 

doubt

my own cognition.

I’ll go back inside. 

Turn the flashlight 

off. 

It will be there 

tomorrow.

I don’t think

I’ll need it. 

Maybe 

there’s something wrong

with my flashlight.

Your Feed

by Jeri Eisenbrenner

I lay in bed 

scrolling and scrolling 

and never finding an end 

to the neo-Nazis, 

to the climate crisis, 

to the rights being stripped 

from every American 

who is different from my father, 

or my brother, 

or any other cis-white man 

who loves a woman 

or loves what a woman 

can do for him.

I see my leader (not MY leader) 

endorse and promote men 

just like him, 

who buy our media, 

sell our data, 

and our bodies 

to all the wrong 

wars.

And I hear him say that 

I am not valid, 

not “real.” 

That I am dangerous. 

That I’m confused by left-wing propaganda,

indoctrinated my educators,

who have never once told me 

that I am in the wrong body, 

or should hate my country.

Where my feed was once 

cat videos and memes of college living, 

is now saturated with people 

shouting for freedom, 

giving their hearts to America (saluting),

and everyone so polarized 

we cannot see top from bottom, 

but we can see who follows the vice 

president-

and never trust we followed him 

in the first place.

And I question if I limit my social media 

intake, 

if that will change 

how fearful I am, 

or the conversations in my communities.

Whether or not the person 

sitting next to me 

in student support services 

will be there next week, 

or if the office will even be there 

at all.

I wonder if I take a step back 

will I forget my mother 

making me watch a 

black boy 

being beat by police in a movie 

when I was little, 

and crying because I couldn’t climb through 

the screen and 

protest with his family? 

And never understanding 

what skin color truly meant in 

Discrimination.

I think that if I take a moment for myself,

I might blink 

and forget 

that I have privilege. 

Not talk to me through CRT, 

but through the fact I do not have to worry 

of my family being torn apart, 

or white men in hoods 

who look like my neighbor.

That if I am not educating myself at any 

given moment,

I will forget that because 

I pass 

in many ways, 

society won’t bat an eye 

to me using the women’s restroom.

And I remember 

borrowing “1984”

from a classroom growing up. 

Before the book was stripped from shelves. 

I recall reading by flashlight 

of what sounds something like 

the 2025 inauguration.

I know what fascism is 

before I learn the definition, 

and question how men 

who scream of a nation for all 

could act for a nation of some.

I wonder if I speak to my family 

of fear for my friends, my classmates, for 

myself, 

if I will be met 

with the reminder 

that my grandmother voted to secure her 

retirement fund, 

and my father only voted to cancel out my 

vote.

That the guns in the living room safe 

mean more than my right to choose.

I talk to my professors every chance I get, 

and in confidence 

they tell me they are sorry 

they can’t protect me.

That it is their job 

to put their lives on the line.

I question if they were also sworn in 

and took an oath to 

protect and serve, 

placing one hand on their 

diploma 

and another on their 

heart.

I find myself in times of peace 

watching movies 

so soaked with social commentary 

that I forget that is 

the life we live.

And it is the life we live.

Believe it or not 

your neighbor, your roommate, your mother 

or father, someone you know through 

someone else could be

gone 

because you answered the door 

under the guise of community 

servants.

That you are not protected from employment 

discrimination.

That you cannot access sites built to inform 

you of your options.

That your best friend since birth 

could have voted against 

your rights.

That even the pastor who pleads for 

mercy 

is labeled an 

extremist.

That your president is a 

rapist, 

and you wonder why survivors don’t 

speak out.

That you have closed the app 

and your feed 

hasn’t changed.

I swear I’m not one of them

by Paul Hyatt

Television static screams beneath

sleep-crusted eyelids. 

We glued them shut─

but to no avail. 

The nightmare was already branded inside.

Each time we open our phones,

a fevered world within us shines, 

a virus connecting us all─

to the drooping skin sloughing off a billionaire’s grin,

to the congealed throne upon which he sits,

a coagulation of slaughtered families in forgotten streets,

of desiccated bears mummified in melting ice. 

And at the top, 

a gold-rimmed toilet in which he shits,

trickle-down sewage, 

a beacon to lust or forget.

Or so I’ve heard. 

None of us can see

beyond the debris we pack

into each other’s eyes.

Yet we gather, bickering,

splitting into two distinct lines─

both, of course, leading to the same demise. 

But in a cult of comfort, we say: 

If you’re not with us, you’re against us. 

And we sleep just fine 

throughout the day, 

but at night, we cower and pray─

not for salvation

but for separation,

because paradise only fits so many.

To dream of one day entering that gold-gated community,

whether above or below the trees, 

to tend its lawns with narcissus and fire,

and admire from inside─palm to palm─

watching the others outside

holding their children to their chests,

as their bodies burn alive.

Thank God they are out there

and you are in here.

If they only had been like you,

they would have been fine.

And you─

you swear it─

you are not one of them.

I want my childhood smile back

by Maddy Gunzenhauser

I’m still grieving

What was replaced with

A “grown up” smile

Nothing can replace my old

Teeth

Misery

Yellowed

Clean and

Healthy

Incisors and cuspids

Left now ugly and

Decrepit

How did we end up like this? I’m not

Old or physically sick,

Only ill in the head.

Do my teeth know that?

So 

Much

I’ve put them through

Like months without brushing

Except it’s not my fault

Because I’m better now but

All I

Could do back then was

Keep myself alive

Our New Frontier

by Kenneth Norris

Let us go on a journey, my love

A quest to wander the heavens above

Lay beside me, head tucked in my chest

The evening’s blush could not match your best,

My dear

I look to you, the world melts away

The sunset fades, the end of day

Draws near

The moths are embers in the night sky

They romance among the fireflies

The luster of dusk gives us grace

I embark you in a sweet embrace,

Pure bliss

Your face caressed by divine light

I wish we could dwell every night

Like this

Maybe we could just disappear

Indulge paradise, our new frontier

We hold each other in the dark

And know together we will depart

So soon

There is nothing I would rather do

I yearn to share the stars with you,

My moon

Te Quiero Para Siempre

by Paulina Rojas-Sandoval

It’s that time

of month again

Where all feels lost

Cause you’re gone,

and it feels

like yesterday

where I’m pulling you out of that car;

crying

holding you

in my arms.

Even

if it makes me cry

in the morning,

please

always visit me

in my dreams.

but I pray

that you’re

happy up there,

even if it’s

without me.