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 Nov 2013 Nicole H
SE Nummenpää
There was an asphalt road along which I walked my childhood
In the warmth of the summers, in the warmth of careless feet
And strawberries strung on wild grass.
The juice of the sun on our cheeks dripped and
We were golden, rugged tar beneath our soles.
My feet were black in the summer.
A child, the sky over my head was too large,
A blue in which I lost myself should I look up.
So I watched the road.

The sun never set on us, but bathed us in the unearthly gold of night.
It washed away tomorrow, it washed away the day past.
It washed away sound but for the far-away buzz of birds and traffic.
The asphalt was always warm after the glow of the day,
And beneath my feet I could feel the tires of cars long gone.
Someday I’d be the driver, too busy to meet the road,
Too busy to walk down my old friend in the evening sun,
But that was far away and my feet were young.
(c) SEN 2010/2011
I sat, staring
a raw paper, naked before me
it gawks at me, teases me, mocks me.
With a blank stare it intimidates me.
Ah, a pun!
Lost pun, without a home.
Perhaps I should file it
with so many other homeless puns?
They have no where to go.
Like a transient they stand
holding signs that read
"Will work for a storyline."
But they are not alone.
There are sentences, paragraphs,
poems and essays
with no end in sight.
"Come join us!" they cry.
"We will await the gods
imagination and inspiration!"

But as Christ delays his coming,
so do they.

But wait, and wait it shall.
Patient paper
Silent paper
The gods will come.
As thieves in the night.
In the dawns early light.
Ah yes!
You will not compel me to stare.
Taunting remnant of tree.

For the gods never come
while I watch.
**** it.
First day on the job
and there you are.

Distracting me.
Pinning me.
Trapped
against your stare.

Oh, Lord.
I love it when you look.
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
tyler
She sat in her ladybug costume, waiting. He said he'd be there at 10, it was 10:45. She knew it was too good to be true. A senior boy wanting to be with a freshman was something everyone had warned her about. As she was walking away she heard someone call her name. She turned around and found herself looking into those familiar, emerald green eyes.
"Cute wings."
"Thanks." She could feel herself turning bright red. She could hear her mom in her head, boys are just girls that haven't matured yet. They are no reason to turn red.
He tucked her chin into his hand and smiled that perfectly white, just crooked enough toothed smile. He pulled her face up to his and kissed her.

It was everything she'd ever imagined.
this was a rough draft of a Halloween themed school assignment. I don't typically write short stories -especially not with dialogue- so constructive criticism is definitely welcome.
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
Andrea Hummel
Sleep beguiling,
calling, reaching,
Wondrous imaginings therein reside;
Cobwebs stretching, fingers petting
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

Where would it take me,
race me, free me?
Glorious if there within I could abide;
caverns hidden, breakers ridden
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

What would I find there,
be there, do there?
Magnificent adventures certainly implied;
queens dethroned, spells intoned
If only I could but have that precious sleep denied.

Instead I stay here,
stuck here, caught here,
Neither tasting nor seeing those miraculously supplied;
sockets rubbing, bed sheets snubbing
Longing for that precious sleep denied…
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
Richard Jones
All winter the fire devoured everything --
tear-stained elegies, old letters, diaries, dead flowers.
When April finally arrived,
I opened the woodstove one last time
and shoveled the remains of those long cold nights
into a bucket, ash rising
through shafts of sunlight,
as swirling in bright, angelic eddies.
I shoveled out the charred end of an oak log,
black and pointed like a pencil;
half-burnt pages
sacrificed
in the making of poems;
old, square handmade nails
liberated from weathered planks
split for kindling.
I buried my hands in the bucket,
found the nails, lifted them,
the phoenix of my right hand
shielded with soot and tar,
my left hand shrouded in soft white ash --
nails in both fists like forged lightning.
I smeared black lines on my face,
drew crosses on my chest with the nails,
raised my arms and stomped my feet,
dancing in honor of spring
and rebirth, dancing
in honor of winter and death.
I hauled the heavy bucket to the garden,
spread ashes over the ground,
asked the earth to be good.
I gave the earth everything
that pulled me through the lonely winter --
oak trees, barns, poems.
I picked up my shovel
and turned hard, gray dirt,
the blade splitting winter
from spring.  With *** and rake,
I cultivated soil,
tilling row after row,
the earth now loose and black.
Tearing seed packets with my teeth,
I sowed spinach with my right hand,
planted petunias with my left.
Lifting clumps of dirt,
I crumbled them in my fists,
loving each dark letter that fell from my fingers.
And when I carried my empty bucket to the lake for water,
a few last ashes rose into spring-morning air,
ash drifting over fields
dew-covered
and lightly dusted green.
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
Craig Walker
I will trace my hand across every part of you that I love,
and at the end of the night,
I would have touched your whole body.
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
anne
fine tuning
 Nov 2013 Nicole H
anne
i  am a being of chaos only tamed
by the sound of euphony
through these head phones, i am one.
Complete, numb, distracted.

Doesn’t feel wrong to indulge in my happiness,
being in a crowd of strangers coming together
to see one big show.
Or indulging in CD’s
and staying up late fighting off killer stress
looking for more music to scavenge.

Empty,
hallow,
and futile feelings,
the piles of ****
i can no longer carry
becomes flushed.

i would rather listen to pointless rambles of a song
than tune in.

An escape, a friend, apartofme.
*revised structure 09/20/2013
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