Sam Dunlap: Favorites

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Meghan O'Neill

How do you think
Those mismatched socks feel
When you pull them
From the dryer.
Do they know that they will
Never see their match again
That they will always be
Half of an equation.
Do they know that
They have lost their purpose
Never to be regained.
When you pull that single sock
From the dryer
Does it understand
That it will never be complete again.
Sometimes
I feel
Like the mismatched socks.
But then I remember
That I am melodramatic
They are just socks
And someday
I will find my other sock
I will find you.

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Anxiety

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Meghan O'Neill

Anxiety

Sometimes
when I think too hard,
my responsibilities
crash over me like waves
on an expanse of stormy sea
pulling me down under
an ocean of panic.
My thoughts turn against me
and the only thing
inside my hollow head
is doubt.
I can't drag myself away from
the lines i have to learn
the homework i have to do
what if my friends don't really like me
is my mum angry at me
what do i want to do with my life
no college will ever accept me
i'm not smart enough
i'll starve in the gutter.
I want to ******* die.
I lay there
paralyzed
with fear and anger
an emptiness that I can't control.
I feel like something is gnawing at me.
I know what i have to do
but I can't make myself do it
because no matter what i do
there's always more
living to be done
more responsibilities
and it's a vicious cycle
that I can't escape
and i'm drowning on air.
So i cry.
And I pray for death.

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

A Love Poem

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Meghan O'Neill

A Love Poem

Some say that love is like a clear pond
Our pond is full of goose ****
Some say love is like a seaside sunset
Our beach is covered in *******
Some say love is like music
Ours sounds like a constipated goat
Some say love is like a spring flower
Ours is an ugly ****.
Some say our love *****
But I'd beg to differ.

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Moonlight Feast

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Meghan O'Neill

Moonlight Feast

Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.

When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.

As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.

They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.

The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Magellanic Penguin

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Pablo Neruda

Magellanic Penguin

Neither clown nor child nor black
nor white but verticle
and a questioning innocence
dressed in night and snow:
The mother smiles at the sailor,
the fisherman at the astronaunt,
but the child child does not smile
when he looks at the bird child,
and from the disorderly ocean
the immaculate passenger
emerges in snowy mourning.

I was without doubt the child bird
there in the cold archipelagoes
when it looked at me with its eyes,
with its ancient ocean eyes:
it had neither arms nor wings
but hard little oars
on its sides:
it was as old as the salt;
the age of moving water,
and it looked at me from its age:
since then I know I do not exist;
I am a worm in the sand.

the reasons for my respect
remained in the sand:
the religious bird
did not need to fly,
did not need to sing,
and through its form was visible
its wild soul bled salt:
as if a vein from the bitter sea
had been broken.

Penguin, static traveler,
deliberate priest of the cold,
I salute your vertical salt
and envy your plumed pride.

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Utopia

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Meenu Syriac

Utopia

Its a little dark here
This illusion I created for myself.
This place I thought was perfect
Has turned into my nightmare.
My fears are bigger
And are haunting me as I cry.
I see a cathedral at the end of the road
With the three moons rising behind.
I walk down the lane
In shuffling steps of fright.
There's the creak of the gates
As I open and enter in to the night.
My life on halt
I'd like this to end
I no longer know myself.
The sky is clouded
There's lightening in the distance,
The only light, from the three heavenly bodies
Looming in the sky
I feel the eyes of a beast
Watching me as I enter.
I pull the door open
Oblivious to what lies inside
Feel the sweat down my back
And the lump in my throat .

A bright light bursts from inside
Blinding my eyes.
I catch myself from falling
From the mere impact.
There's an altar at the centre
I make my way through .
There lies my body
Lying like a living sacrifice.
I know not the meaning
Nor the reason
For the tears in my eyes.
All I know is my illusion was this light
The darkness outside trying to invade,
My only hope of being all I am.
I am not the darkness outside
Nor am I ruled by my fears.
My light prevails through all dark times
And keeps the faith in myself intact.
Here, where the light shines,
This is my Utopia.

Faith and hope, at the end of the day, keeps us going.

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Puddle Jumping

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Kate

Puddle Jumping

Us, just you and I.
This is our world.
But these aren’t tears.
Maybe they are, maybe they are our own.
But what does this matter? We have seen each other’s tears.
We’re washed, cleansed, and no longer you and I.
We are young.
We are free.
We are innocent.
We are happy. Happy.
Can you imagine?
Thunder rolls. But not thunder.
Music that used to be our sobs, washed clean by this rain that isn't rain at all.
We play, play like the children we never ceased to be.
We run, not racing like we usually do,
neither one of us wanting to win because to win means to leave the other behind.
We love each other, but we’re not in love.
How beautiful is that? How simple and perfect.
How sublime this thundering, rainy day can be.
It’s a wonder. Greater than the sun.
Sunlight doesn’t bring us together, darkness does.
We grow from the darkness.
We flourish in the sun.
But every so often, we retreat. Just to stay honest, you see?

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Atlas

Apr 2014 Sam Dunlap

Kate

Atlas

Draw a map of the world.
Draw it straight onto the walls
of your bedroom
(or your cell, whichever you prefer)
into your favourite notebook
(so you always have it with you)
onto the palms of your hands
(so you never forget it's there)

Press a pushpin
into the capital cities.
The ones with names like
Most Beautiful View
Him
That Song
A Few Tears
and remember to translate their titles
to the local tongue.
Maybe
they'll read
You
Love
Feel
Him
or maybe not.

Trace the lines
of the coast on which
you faced your first ocean
or your second
or your twenty-ninth.

Doodle a hollow star
onto the hilltop where the two of you
made the same wish
on that strange streak of light burned into the sky.

Draw a map of your world.
Fill it with all of the beautiful things
that you have ever and never seen.

Mar 2014 Sam Dunlap

I Know My Sister Loves Me...

Mar 2014 Sam Dunlap

Caytlin Rae

I Know My Sister Loves Me...

I was reading this little story today.
A group of four-year olds were asked
“What is love?”
The answers were humorous.
They were cute, even true…
But I came across one
That made me think of you.
“I know my older sister loves me,
Because she gives me her old clothes,
And she has to go out and buy new ones.”
I smiled at this,
But thought about it some…
This little girl is right.
I’ve given you buckets of clothes.
I’d give you the shirt off my back,
Because an older sister’s love
Is the most selfless act.
I love you more than I love shoes,
Or the way it smells after it rains,
Or our conversations we have in the car.
You’re more than the sum of our memories,
And you’re more than our shared genetics,
You’re my best friend forever…
You always were, really,
Because who else would just let me cry
Over the stupidest things
While you just listen?
You always were the pretty one,
But you make me feel just as gorgeous.
I know I’m not.
But thanks for letting me believe it.
You’ve tested my patience a billion times,
But it only made me love you more.
You let me learn self-control,
You showed me how to love peoples’ flaws.
I chuckle.
I used to write you stories,
And now I write you poems.
My poems for you are my favorite ones, anyway.

— The End —