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Callie Richter Oct 2017
I was born on April 5th in Harlan, Iowa. I've always hated when snow is still sitting on the ground by then.
My mom never once showed me affection, bringing me to parties and leaving me with strangers.
What about my dad, you ask? I'll dig in my desk drawer and find the piece of paper that lists seven possibilities because I've always craved what I'll never have.
But on a happier note, I was adopted as a three-month-old baby.
I spent my childhood with my nose shoved in a book way above my expected reading level.
By the fourth grade, I was in love with sports, especially, soccer.
My alcoholic grandpa was by far my biggest role model because I could only see light in people at that age. About once a season I'd see his rickety old truck pull up on the wrong side of the field to get a front row seat of my soccer game.
When I was thirteen my grandpa passed away. I still watch every Cubs game for him and dream of travelling the east coast like he always used to do.
By the time I was fourteen I was into the most popular things at my high school, they definitely weren't in my best interest. You see, I've always tried too hard to fit in.
Yes, I'm hearing all this about who you used to be, but Callie, who are you now?
Who am I now?
Well.
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
My favorite color is light blue.
I have an older brother, whom I love dearly.
I love watching football and screaming at the t.v. during any Dallas or Iowa State game.
I'm proud of my home team in every possible sport and cheer as loud as I can when we're winning and even when we're not.
I love watching That '70s Show while sipping an Arnold Palmer.
My home away from home is walking the beaches of Okoboji until it gets chilly enough to start a bonfire.
My biggest passion is, by far, playing soccer. I love the feeling of strapping on shin guards and tightening cleats before I run out of the locker room all hunched over trying to get my hair in a ponytail and get outside so I have enough time to warm up before practice.
I wake up every single morning to my alarm of my favorite music with a smile on my face ready for the day to begin.
Stop.
I said who are you now?
I mean really. Who are you?
Who am I now?
Well.
Sometimes I dream about getting married to some boy without a face, just to take his last name and rid the sin that comes along with being a Richter.
I cried in the bathroom stall at school the first time I heard a rumor that was spread about me. I tell everyone that by now I'm used to it, but the truth is each one buries me again.
I throw myself into physical activity and school sports because the sweat and heavy breathing puts my mind at ease and gives me a sense of accomplishment. Throwing myself into my school work obviously, doesn't have the same effect.
The boys at school still give me side glances, give me propositions, and make wisecracks about me being easy because maybe they'll have a chance, not to date me but to get with me because of rumors they heard over a year ago.
I'm so insecure about so much of myself that most days I would much rather crawl under a rock and die than show my face in the hallways between the bells.
Don't tell anyone I told you this though.
You must keep it a secret.
I mean, what would people think if they knew?
I think it's better off that they just see me as...
My name is Callie.
Calista Carol Leanne when moms mad.
MJL Mar 29
Nick was a lost boy
With a whispering heart
He held proper Victorian sadness
Until his public strength bowed
As it does with the artistic type
His soul beating modal
And his mask of gilded paper mache
With glue dripping and drying to fragile dreams
He needed to get back to the pastures of Tanworth
Yet London had other ideas
And his stiff upper lip cracked
He was a poet, you see
Who danced with trees...
And everyone knows
Butterflies don't ride bikes
Though that would be beautiful
To see one on a banana seat
Sailing down a country lane...
Alas, butterflies can simply fly away if a bike objects
And feel no pain
But Nick was hurt as he fell to the ground
His sickly hunched posture told of a great weight
Shoulders struggled to shepherd the world
With only Flower his power
And Pen his staff
Sadness met the River Man
And the River Man broke down
Poor, the fame of falling poets
Rich, the earth’s garden of toiled words
Caked under soiled writers nails
A headstone,
"Now we rise
And we are everywhere"
His tailwind to us
Go and look at what our fellow poets eyes do see
And bid hello to another artist’s soul on parade
For, as with you, they too are simply lost
And desperate for a garden to share and grow


© 2019 MJL
For Nick Drake, and to poets everywhere. Thanks for sharing. Thanks for your rich souls. London here represents what the world wants us to be. Butterflies, the crack from reality.... May we all meet the River Man on our own terms, with a smile, on route to our own pastures of Tanworth.
Don’t get old
The old boy said

As he struggled past me
With his walking stick

Don’t get old
He repeated

As though by telling me
I would be able to avoid it

There’s a 25 year old
Fighter pilot inside me, he said

Then he was on his way
Hunched over
Shuffling along
With his walking stick
Some old people are still young, but trapped in an old body
Mark Boschi Apr 2
at night you can find me
planted onto the tile floor
the shower water gushing against my hunched back feels like a hug
each trickle resembles your fingers
- i'm trying to erase you,
scrub away the marks you've left on my wrists,
the bruised knees
but your threatening undertone
rings in my head
stings the sterile lights,
they will always flicker.

Mark Boschi
Bastet Nov 2018
There they are.
Lined up, one by one.
Standing tall, perfectly ordered, not a hair's width out of line.
They're strong, still. They're the strongest in the world, refusing to abandon their formation with a finality I just can't argue with.
They seem unmovable, so certain in their stance;
and so gentle.
Not even a whisper of tension controls them;
they stand with ease,
and the reassuring practice of time.

Then I look at mine.
Shaking, fluttering.
They can't seem to find their place, scrambling from spot to spot with desperation.
They seem like they can't stand still, slouching and fidgeting, and certainly not getting along with each other.
I can't seem to find even a hint of confidence when I see their hunched shoulders.

But they're not ashamed, and neither am I.
I look back at those weathered masters.
Like little soldiers, lined up and ready,
watching my band of new recruits struggle to find their place.
They're so calm, and so experienced, and I believe that some day, mine will be just like theirs.
So I take up my instrument again, watching my teacher.
My fingers are hopeful, and so am I.
Arianna Jul 7
A midsummer gust of winter
had the Sky hunched, trembling, on the brink of tears;

and an hour now into yesterday's Tomorrow, I sit up late
as impending storms subside, making way for stars.

Perhaps in wavering darkness
the relics of your presence I could find,

infusing the fibres of the bed with the dream-essence spilling
from your dark-haired head.

Gleaming Serenity in the sunrise' indigo shades
you, sleepless, spoke of visions

while the clock skipped, and Time
lost itself in your eyes:

          "Sometimes I look at you
          and think it must be a dream."

If it be so, then let us dissolve
manifesting all the colors we cannot see and,

sifting the dust of our dreamings,
trace the silver-and-golds trailing languageless calligraphy

looping where phosphorescent fingers
painted sleeping gods in the darkness,

coming at last to rest
nestled between the crevices of themselves.
Johannes Sebastian Bach - "Cello Suite No. 2 in D minor, BWV 1008":
https://youtu.be/_NvZRo-3wvU
Above me hovers endless sky--
dark, calm, tranquil, and flowing
I see my reflection in the occasional ripple of stars;
wilted hair, hunched spine, smudged, muddy eyes
I hate how it so clearly displays
my pathetic, pitiful, existence--
a life laced with strife underneath gold
spread on the surface
symbols traced on walls, willowy and enchanting
mistaken by outsiders as representing
a record of aspirations,
I am the sole figure who knows the truth:
that it's a record of my flaws and regrets
I've managed to make it this far--
an entanglement of blessings, luck,
opportunities, strangers' pity,
a system's willingness, and my own work
but I know it's not enough,
and I'm uncertain of how much longer
I can continue to pitch my complexity and worth--
just hoping that when the dam bursts
with the arrival of the truth;
the moment I can no longer pretend
everything is okay....
just hoping that mom and dad
will still love me for who I am,

and that the world will leave me alone
08/14/19

Besides this shot of angsty depression, to anyone else starting/ returning to university: have a good first day of school!! remember to believe in yourself <3
CataclysticEvent Oct 2018
My dad was a hero.
He wasn't a saint.
He was human.
And he owned his humanness like a god.
His mistakes weren't hidden away.
No,
He shared them with me.
A lesson so hopefully I didn't,
Have to learn it too.

My dad was made for greatness.
He could have been or done anything.
And he chose to raise me.
Teach me,
Love me.
Become a mother and a father all at once.
Dimmed his shine,
To help me find mine.

My dad was a blessing.
Not perfect or without fault.
But always able to admit his mistakes.
Followed by an apology.

My dad is now my angel.
The voice in my head I hear,
When I want to quit.
When I want the world to stop,
Turning like nothing has changed.

He's the flash in my vision,
When I feel utterly alone.
Lost without a destination or home.
Reminding me I am my own home.

He's the calm that shows up,
When I'm drowning in panic.
Hunched over unable to move.
Suffocating in anxiety.
Reminding me,
It's okay...breath.

My dad is gone.
But the lessons he taught me live on.
The calm he gave me,
Still remains.
And some days I think,
He still comes back sometimes.
In those bad moments.
Those drowning, suffocating moments.
To put a hand on my shoulder and say,
"I've got you.  You've got this"
Columbusphere Nov 2018
Light pooling on a surface
And breaking through in beams
Hundreds of passageways allowing this spectacle
To fill one room with sun
Shining, flickering dust particles
Batting against your skin
And this same air swollen with a thousand
                                                  beatin­g insect wings
Which to the light all softly cling
Mashed in colours that the glass carved in
Flying shapes that join the buzz
And spiralling greens lumbering towards the sky
Resting, hunched and pressed against the glass
So shuddering with life they seem to sigh
Solid, light stone in colour
Is the current, wrapped around it's base
River like and over flowing
Is this place
The great outside pointing in
Like a planet inverted or a doctors blue box
Tended, and yet containing a mind of its own
It is mightily over grown
And that is the way it should be
© 2018 Columbusphere All rights reserved
Alyssa Gaul Nov 2018
This memory keeps coming back-
us under the dining table,
our knobby knees banging together
as we whisper secrets in each other's ears
and giggle about how sneaky
we think we are being
I don't know how many of us there were-
maybe five-
our prepubescent girl bodies
hunched beneath the wood,
digging our toes into the carpet
We were neighbors,
adventuring friends
the kind of pushed-together pals
that didn't know the nitty-gritty;
the most deepest of secrets about each other
But now we shared one
I can't remember if we all kissed
or just paired up
but I'm pretty sure we never talked about it again
Shelby had said it was just practice
Erin claimed she had already done it with another friend
Let's just try it
I don't mark this moment as the one where I knew
because I didn't
but I'll always remember the way the
giggling sounded in my ear
and how the teasing that came later
stung a little too much
It had nothing to do with s*x
we were innocent children
playing kiss the girl
and my heart was happy to be with them
It wasn't even a crush
It wasn't a describable feeling
but something felt right
I always come back to that memory.
#4 of 30
I D Lowrance Sep 2018
Bright Girl walks down the hall
Head up, eyes filled to the brim with false hope
Sunshine found in the forced smile placed gently on her face
And though she tries, the weight of her invisible burdens appear in her strides-
Shoulders slightly hunched
Feet dragging through molasses fields
Big dreams fill her small head but are forever P.O.W.s
Prisoners Of Wisdom,
Locked down by the chains of reality waiting to be set free

Bright Girl clings to the darkness which she holds close as if it were a precious picture of a family she left behind or, a memory locked into a shape of a heart around her neck
She wants to be BRIGHT BRIGHT, BRIGHT
Outshining the shadows of misery  that continue to grow like cancer in the corners of her mind

Bright Girl gets cheated, lied to and used by those who claim to love her but have abused her like a drug
She meets a misery lives company friend who tells her this isn't how her story has to end and to reach beyond the stars for something that will make her glitter, like the stars only found in her home country

Bright Girl walks down the hall,
Eyes filled to the brim with blue sadness that spills over into a pool of hope for the future
Nick Stiltner Aug 2018
Horns of triumph sound,
showering the day with a golden glow!
Apollo in his blazing chariot rises from the east horizon, reigns in hand as he flies towards the stars with the morning light tethered tightly behind
his shining carriage.

Eyes long blinded ache from the coming morning,
the dew on the grass shines in radiance
and an emerging smile escapes from lips tightly held together.

A laugh escapes!
The head rolls back, the eyes begin to water!
A gasp for air, a friend held tightly to your chest!

The mournful songs of the lasting night fade to blurred memory, drowned in new light.
The flicker behind a smile that was lost in the white moonlight cracks open again, one that was forgotten deep within the darkened cave.

The first time come again!
A child’s giddy laugh tolls from a mouth set in stone.
A stomach full of nervousness, a mind that will not rest.
I exist on a single beam of light in between two oceans of stretching, black infinity, and I walk the line as a tight rope, balancing deftly with my eyes in the clouds, and a pen held tightly in my hand.

Shades of blue, the morning doves throaty coo,
each second leaps and bounds, elastic stretching and it’s twanging rebound.
The tension in the rope that can’t help but reverberate, and love in exasperation, shiver as the chills come once again.

Eyes met twice, a joy to be now with no questions asked, no thoughts but what the others thoughts are, and how long a moment can actually last.

Nostalgic tones of youths throaty chords ring through the dreary sea, sending the still waves tumbling and crashing, setting a tranquil man into motion once again, releasing the tension in a brow long furrowed, in shoulders tightly hunched, and ending the silence of a tongue held once too many times.

The Sun Gods booming laugh echos down the valley,
a reverberating sound that even the soaring eagle must stop and perk his ears too, losing sight of the mouse he had planned for breakfast, forgetting all but that musical tone.

When the light comes, when the dawning sun rises again, let your eyes water and overflow, let your heart swell and stomach twist, let the chills flow like the white capped river, feel the rapids of emotion that erode even the strongest rocks in the way of the current.

Now I am and I am now,
I bathe in the light and let a smile touch my lips, with my arms spread softly apart.
I take a deep breath of the cool morning air, filling empty lungs to the straining brim,
Oh, the first time come again!
Sky Yang Aug 2018
as the bus pulls along the lazy river on Main,
a slouching mind and pressed cheek is a swimmer,
dipping toes

and meanwhile
the gentle murmur of pool-goers living inaudibly,
like hunched bunches
in shawls of shade

(interrupted only
by the occasional l-urch)

nodding, nodding
off and on and off and
into the water,
the swimmer slips in
...

Here, it is heaven on earth

an oasis
...

and the mind swims ever so far
ever so deep
...

i wonder...
...

and outside
a boy, barefoot
runs upstream

a shimmering second
an apparition of summer?
and out of sight
please help revise and improve! <3
Eddie May 13
Death is a beautiful thing.
It brings an end to all living things
And brings darkness into a world of light

It can bring people together, comforted in their grief.
Others, forever torn by the sorrow they now carry.

Each star in the sky reflects light from their crumbling core,
Falling apart from the inside out.
Yet we still find beauty in each fragile twinkle.
Perceptions change, so do we.

When we die, the earth consumes our very soul.
One with the soil that nourished us for so long.
Trees wildflowers spring from the bones,
reflecting the joy we once brought
In this way, we return what was borrowed.
Give thanks for the life we live.
Nature, though brutal, is famed for its extravagant beauty.
Why is our own mortality not viewed the same?

When I am gone, do not mourn me.
I am in the birds that sing,
The grass that grows,
The silence before dawn.
I am everything that was, and everything that will be.


Death is a beautiful thing.
The final question, the last journey.
An ending no living creature can escape

What if paradise is bristling with jungle and water?
Flat planes or marsh?
What if paradise is a endless city of palaces and wealth?
What if paradise is nothing at all and we cease to exist?

If you look closely, you can see the fire behind the eyes.
A slow smoulder or a blaze of light.
Is this is the soul, that is often spoken of in the world of religion?
Or rather, the raging life force that keeps our complex bodies
moving forward?

Watching that candle burn down to nothing,
Shrink to barely a dew drop of warmth,
is like watching the ocean draining.
Impossible, but very obviously happening, right before your eyes.
And when it’s gone, all you can ask, is why?
Why me? Why them?

Take a minute and ask yourself this.
Why is that strong fire within so soon forgotten once it’s spent?
Each and every happy memory..tainted.
Nothing left of the one you’ve lost but an image.
A frail hunched body.
Sunken in eyes, pale skin.
Look closer.
You may recognize the loved one you once laughed with.

A day may come when all those you have loved are gone,
And the quiet spots in life feel all the more lonely.
Cultivate your mother's favorite flowers,
Plant a bush over your pet’s favorite spot.
If you truly hold something in your heart,
It will always be there,
Kept safe until it is time to go.
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