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 Nov 2018 pri
Bus Poet Stop
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
marching band
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
you have to find the stupid reasons not to **** yourself.

for example:
i can’t **** myself because i’m in marching band and we just got our drill. it would be selfish if i left a hole in our formations.

i can’t **** myself because my dad bought me a new package of that bread i like. it would be a waste to not eat it.

i can’t **** myself because my french teacher moved a girl next to me. it would be rude if i were to leave her without a seating partner again.

i can’t **** myself because my friends and i are in a gift exchange. it would be annoying if the person i got didn’t get a gift.

i can’t **** myself because my room is messy. it would be ******* my family if i left a mess.

i can’t **** myself because i have a group project coming up. it would be unfair if i left my partners to do all the work.

i can’t **** myself because it would inconvenience others. i can’t **** my self because leaving a hole would hurt their productivity. i can’t **** myself because me dying would mean that i never got to see the end of my favorite books, i never got to see my favorite tv shows, i never got to finish my favorite poems.

i can’t **** myself because i’m in marching band. if i do, i’ll leave a hole.
i don’t know if this is positive anymore
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
color love
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
blue comes up to me and asks if i like yellow
i say no
blue laughs

blue comes up to me and asks me if i still like yellow
i say maybe
blue nods

blue comes up to me and asks if i still like yellow
i say yes
blue frowns

blue comes up to me and asks if she’s allowed to like yellow
i say why are you asking me
blue says i was here first

blue comes up to me and tells me that she is planning on taking yellow on a date
i tell her to have fun
blue doesn’t know i don’t like green

yellow tells me that blue is going to ask them on a date
yellow says they don’t know how feel about this
yellow asks me if they should say yes
yellow asks

i say go for it

yellow smiles

my heart beats when yellow smiles
“will you tell them?” it asks
i tell it maybe
my heart continues to beat
i thought you were yellow even before i fell in love
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
closeted
 Nov 2018 pri
ethan
when i was a freshman one of my friends told me that there was a girl who was talking about me
asking why i was pretending to be straight and that everyone could tell that i was gay
my friends and i laughed it off like children and i quipped “i’m not pretending anything, just ask anyone and they’ll know”

now, i think of the rainbow socks, the only thing i own with a rainbow on it, being shoved down to the bottom of my sock drawer as if it would pop out at any minute and proclaim it’s existence if it were any higher. now, i think of the rainbow highlight that i applies in the bathroom at midnight, pausing every now and again to make sure i was alone. Now, i think of the pride nail art that i scrubbed off my nails minutes after i painted it on. now, i think of the last word in a poem that i wrote and turned in, scared i was being too obvious with the word they.

now, i think of the horrible creature sitting in my chest that simultaneously begs to never tell my secrets and to also scream them from the roof tops. i think of the sludge that lives in me and climbs up my throat, whispering safety into my ear while also ripping apart everything it touches. i think of the pain i feel whenever i say that i’m gay, because it makes things easier if the works sees me as a girl who loves other girls.

before thinking of this poem i had sat back and wondered how many bottles it would take of the various prescription medicines that my parents kept in the kitchen cabinet to **** me. when i remembered the name they would put on the tombstone i stopped and walked away. i remember the time where i couldn’t walk away and i had reached in and grabbed a full bottle of ibuprofen and i took a single one, hoping that my screaming head could be sated by the feeling of a single pill crawling down my throat.

i had a dream last night about someone called addison.
they looked me in the eyes and before i even knew what they looked like their physical form flickered until they were a bright shining star in a vaguely human form.

they sat next to me as we floated in a void on a picnic blanket and they put their arm around my shoulder which felt like a hug from someone i used to know but had forgotten
i stared at their glasses that looked too much like mine as they flickered in and out of existence and they told me i was not where i was supposed to be.

i didnt ask them where but they heard it anyways as if breaking into my thoughts. they answered that they could not tell me and when i thought why they said they didn’t want to spoil the fun of a brighter future for them and me.

i woke up with the taste of lavender on my tongue and the desire to change my name.
i’m not sure who i want to be
 Nov 2018 pri
Rohan P
tender,
you trail stars,
wake to your
stars

still starry, dearest,
starry-eyed,
you outshine me.
for m.f.
 Nov 2018 pri
Sharon Talbot
Age and Grace

Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.

Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.

The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..

She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.

She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.

Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Inspired in part by the opening scenes of Vanessa Redgrave in "Howard's End". Addendum: To get even more of the "feel" I had when writing this, try listening to Percy Grainger's "Bridal Lullaby", which plays during this scene:

https://open.spotify.com/track/33uOoJL9HiciylNG6hkDwI?si=WwNT_N5hQP2EclOvOpi5Og
 Nov 2018 pri
ali
star stuff
 Nov 2018 pri
ali
she is made of star stuff,
the lingering effect
of supernovas
colliding
and light
thrown in every direction,
the breathtaking sight
of immortal beauty,
the kind that shines
for centuries,
only to reach a destination
that doesn't worship her
as he does the blinking planets.
we're all made of star stuff... i think that's pretty cool and poetic. ALSO the poetry class i'm taking this year is eye-opening and amazing, the amount of pure talent people have with words- it blows me away
 Nov 2018 pri
Rohan P
not feeling the gravity
around your darkness,
not seeing the depth and shape
—stretched, elongated—
the asymmetry

of axes, maligned, blue on
red: blood on metal,
tooth by tooth:

we don't fly anymore
on these pale, manila wings.
i've tried so hard to not love you: did it finally work?
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