Category: Poetry

Miranda & Juliet

Juliet sits on her balcony, stares up to the moon.
Miranda, on an island far away, stares up at that same moon.
Both girls dream of life, of freedom, of love.
They wish to be out of the window 
Or back on land,
Away from their fathers.

Maybe then they could dance in the streets,
Sleep in the meadows with white cloud sheep,
And have their hands kissed by strangers.
Maybe, 
In a cold, 17th century Sicilian tavern, 
They could meet one day,
And become friends.
They could talk for hours on end,
Plan out adventures and travels,
And figure out how to fall in love.
Then, when the sun breaks, they’d part,
But only for the day.
Juliet would run to the hills,
Away from the stifling courts,
And Miranda would run to the city,
Away from the lonely wilds,
And they’d live.

But, for now, 
They sit under the moonlight,
In their father’s homes,
And dream.

Cycle

Birth must precede death.
Tonight, I sleep as a newlywed,
Beginning my path
To sleeping alone as a widow.

René E. Wilde is the pseudonym of an aspiring writer currently attending Cal State San Marcos and studying Literature & Writing. They are a writer of primarily paranormal and coming-of-age fiction and currently attempting to publish their first novel. 

Master of The Universe

Piles and piles of pages lay about me,
The day’s plight brings naught.
My wrist is contorted and aching.
Arthritis poisons my fingers
Gripping the ink-giving majesty,
To which Birthed the pages I stand before you
On.

My eyes are sore, and my heart is heavy
-No one is left
expect those in the mountains I carved,
The oceans breathed life into sails as adventures attempted to break through
The margins
- but never did

The acceptance of my beings in these worlds
Never came-
(And never will).
Their glory stains my soul as I continue to
Put them in danger for the jeers of an invisible audience.
The plight of an artist: scathed and hurting.

My children waltz in the sands for an undisclosed amount of time.
They so few, but determined, scribbled so
So few rebel in their toil
Tackling their fears of abuse,
Scribbling further, they turn on each other.

Waltzing in the desert… my proud beings
Question and mistake their purpose,
Nothing too great lies beyond their strife,
The torn-out pages hit the floor as my eyes
Catch the mistakes of the mythical world
-I’ve crafted.

I am Michael James Farrell. I am a student at the University of San Diego and majoring in English. I am a Staff sergeant in the Marine Corps, have a beautiful wife and two amazing children, and once I graduate, I will be commissioned as an officer in the Marines.

Hiding in the Bathroom

Hiding in the bathroom
O Father of my father
Patriarch of my name
On the off chance
You were again right
Save me a seat
Pour your vodka on ice
And my whiskey neat
And let's have us a fight.
A debate too,
A shooting contest,
And we can wrap it all up
With an old-fashioned flyte

But if you were wrong
On this one little thing
If I never get the chance
I'll never feel right
You were bigger than life
Tougher than nails
But goofy and loving
And to undersell,
Enormously bright
So what am I?
Without your faith, your country?
If you were wrong
What do I do with all your might?

…Than a Gardener in a War

They put the sword in the cradle
When i was young
A warrior they’d raise;
A winner, a killer, a brute
“But this is a garden,”
Was never considered.

They put the sword through her chest–
Rather, to it, i guess–
And made her do the falling herself.
Not a warrior, you see
Too weak to live; a coward
Her own failing, not ours.

They put the sword to my throat
When the questions got awkward
A warrior crushes;
He does not question;
He does not waver;
He does not feel.

They put the sword in my hand
When i finally gave up
And bent to the system
I found solace in my skill
But they didn’t like how i used it
By which i mean i didn’t.

I put the sword in the attic
It will not invade my son’s cradle
Nor pierce my daughter’s heart
Because a warrior protects those in his garden
From the brutes with swords 
Both without and within.

Jeremy is an aspiring educator, a conflicted veteran, an escaped Kentuckian, and a feral child, listed in reverse chronology. His work aligns itself against the light and its encroachment upon the dark, whilst still attempting to explore the dark himself. He also takes himself just a bit too seriously and should probably calm down. Someday. 

When life doesn’t feel real

I float above every room, every street,
I’m a million tiny droplets in the sky
and my body below, alone, 
walks to class, walks home,
I cannot will it to lift my face up, 
to breathe myself in.
It sleepwalks, instead

and I, a little ghost, drift away, find myself among a crowd 
of translucent bodies. Layered over each other, 
I see teeth through knees and fingertips, ribs.
If I listen I can hear silence in the distance
so I go beyond the murmuring heads 
to a heath
and there is a ring of fog
as wide as the horizon.

My feet remain an inch, a breath away from the grass,
small blades of grass, I see you.
I cannot touch you like I could before. 
But I think you would be cold on my ankles, above my socks.
Where I pass must wilt at dusk 
and I will never truly know anywhere
I have been. 

Laila Kayyali is a senior at New York University. Originally from Amman, Jordan, she is completing her bachelor’s degree in Media, Culture and Communication while minoring in both Creative Writing and Documentary. In her free time, she loves reading the Modern Love column in the New York Times and completing the Mini Crossword.

I jump Through SO many Hoops for you

Nicholas Nevarez (He/Him) is an undergrad in literature and writing at CSUSM. He enjoys writing short pieces of fiction and poetry and hopes to become a creative writing professor in the future.

Cherry Jello in Teacups

      
              We ran through blackberry bushes chasing clouds  

              Nothing keeping us in this town except  

              How do I explain? 

 

Cherry Jello with whipped cream on a Wednesday night when you’ve had nothing sweet for years 

              Mothers voice  

              A storm in a teacup 

              The elephant in the room 

You should close your legs  

Look where your legs are  

Look before you leap off cliffs  

              We never did  

              We had bigger fish to fry 

              Ran head first and headlong into whatever was waiting 

              Catfish with needles threading dinnerplates together on Sundays after church 

              My hands are tied to the pews drug down the street as we speed past the city limit sign 

              How do we stop without road rash-covering bodies still bending to fit into family photos 

              How do we come back...belong without becoming what we are running from? 

Miranda is an undergraduate at CSUSM. She is inspired by the everyday, an observer of the world around her, hopeful and excited to see what is around the next corner of this journey she is currently on. 

Render Me Sweet

I ask the canvas to render me sweet,
His countenance far easier to sway
Than the brush, whose full head you beat
Against the canvas, whose blood sprays
In bright hues—enough to capture the color
Of thought. I ask the brush to forgive your violent
Art, that necessary craft, and he endures.
He translates your whim to canvas from his bristled end,
To the canvas that does all a canvas can
To render me sweet, loyal as a canvas may be.
He stays stock-still under your steady hand
While I, the subject, stir, restless in my seat.
            I envy the wet brush that tastes your fingers’ tips.
            I long to be the canvas, for you to paint me with your lips.

Nathan S Thomas is a writer and poet based in Columbus, Ohio. He is currently studying English Rhetoric & Professional Writing and Creative Writing at the University of Cincinnati and is a poetry editor for the university’s undergraduate literary journal, Short Vine. His work often concerns aesthetics, aware of the way prose looks on the page, the way it feels in the mouth, in the body, out loud. He works in and out of forms but prefers to keep things loose.

i haven’t eaten in months but i’m still not hungry

all the life has been sucked out of me
all the intellect, creativity, curiosity
the feeling that this world was so much bigger
and that I could be a part of such vastness
where did it go? - I just had it
it ate me up for a long time
in the best way, in the way I’m sure every artist knows. 
mental blockages
negative non-stop mind chatter
I constantly feel like I’m broken,
faulty, send me back to the manufacturer
If I were a toy, they’d stuff me back up
like a teddy bear
until I was able to serve my purpose again
because what good is a stuffed animal that is not stuffed? 
I’m an artist that doesn’t make art
a writer that doesn’t write
a reader that doesn’t read ...
as these labels are being stripped from me
one by one
by my own doing (my own destruction)
I’m left with nothing anymore
everything that I pride myself in, that I identify as
Is like it was never me or mine, to begin with

Humanities

When I get away from myself
Is the best feeling
Or is it getting into myself
That I’m really doing?
Get out of the house
Hang out with friends
Get a coffee and sit down outside
Feel the sun and the breeze
Life feels normal again
Not so stuck in my head
I think it is “away from myself”
That would be the correct way to put it
Though I don’t like to think
That the wave of negative thoughts
That blankets over me when I’m alone
Is me
I like the idea that I am not my thoughts
But rather, the consciousness
That is witnessing them
Therefore I can pick and choose
What to pay attention to
And what to believe
What to embrace
And what to ignore
It actually sounds pretty dangerous – no, powerful 
Why don’t they teach us
How to wield these weapons in school
Self awareness
Critical thinking
Emotional intelligence

How can anyone say
The Humanities are not
Worth studying

Cool morning breeze of possibilities

There’s something about mornings that cure
every hopeless thought and feeling
Whatever I did, or more likely didn’t do, yesterday
is expelled by the crisp chill of today
There are so many hours left in the day
I make a list of all the things I need to do
And it’s still early enough to believe
that I will get them done
Yet as the hours pass,
and the tasks don’t get completed,
I fall back into the familiar mode
of hopelessness and darkness
Too overwhelmed to try to get anything done 
Too late to start my list
So I wait for the next day
and hope I rise early enough
To feel the dopamine rush of anticipation 
Cool morning breeze of possibilities

I’m good at making promises to myself
But not so good at keeping them

Alexa is a senior at California State University, Fullerton, studying English. She is a Mexican-American, first-generation college student who transferred from Fullerton Community College, where she currently works as a writing tutor. She has always enjoyed writing poetry because of the freedom it allows her to express her thoughts and feelings in a creative way. Her poetry tends to focus on the inner self, and the experiences of what is going on in her psyche in order to find meaning and connection to the world. 

Someday

  I fall in love every day
with the clouds in the sky,
the way my car AC hits my face, 
when a customer asks how I’m doing
while they look me in the eye. 
There’s love in everything I do, 
passion with every move I make,
I’ve never only loved one person,
I read in a book somewhere
that total devotion to one thing
will only lead to despair. 
To all the people in the world
who have turned their backs on me,
flipped me off when I turn my head,
whisper badly when I leave the room,
I love you all too.
I’m always hoping one day
the sun will shine on all of our hands,
as we feel the warmth, 
the growth, 
that feeling that starts inside,
to ward off the decay,
maybe then we may see eye to eye,
even wave hi on the street,
but until that day,
just know that I love you.
I know you love me too.

Please Don’t Burn

When I die I want to be buried,
I don’t care where or how it’s done,
don’t even need a coffin,
just dump my body into the earth
where it can eat at me
as it gets the last laugh,
devouring the skin I lived in.
Do what you want with my corpse,
throw it off a boat in the middle of the sea,
dump me in some random ditch in Hemet,
store me in your basement freezer,
all I ask is you don’t burn me.
I can’t let everything I worked for
be reduced to ash in a jar,
let my rot be a reminder
that I survived the best I could,
I’ll be at peace when I feel the decay,
let it wrap around my bones,
It's what I deserve.

Christian Morales goes to Cal State San Marcos and is currently studying in the field of Literature and Writing. Christian plans to write in the field of horror fiction once he graduates, but also writes poetry weekly to help gather his thoughts.

Phenomenal Woman: A Parallel and Reflection to Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman”

phenomenal woman,
your smile is my favorite thing
it brightens up my day
despite your annoying explanations
“I have to do this. I have to do that.”


your lips are pretty as much as they move
your shoulders broad too
your personality bright like the sun behind clouds when I look at you.


I hate him
though I do not know his name
nor where he comes from
drove up in his car telling us to get in it
he banters and shouts: a complete stranger 
his face, the gears turning with gross intention


and he didn’t care that I was with you 
indulging in harmless activity such as beauty
and self esteem


he shouted to you and yet I’m the one shaking
I can’t eat now or never again after his invocations 
bystanders near yet never witnessing; never at the scene


this world does not seem to care for the phenomenon that is a woman


his shouts carved into me like a marking into a tree 
a tree can die from that if you didn’t know


but you don’t know do you?
you have no idea
the pain, the anger, the fear
the gutting echo of your mannish voice banging in my head like an ominous drum; 
that her sister is a writer, a poet who internalizes your repulsivity on paper.
you look at us like opportunities like objects until our objections become weaponry. you want a mouth that’s malleable for you to bend or break. you love your car more than yourself which is dangerously obvious. the things you said to her, this phenomenal woman,
who cares, when you see curves;
who objects, when you see object; 
who builds what guys like you break;


you cut into the person you weren’t trying to win.


and it wasn’t even to me
 it was to her


my phenomenal woman of a sister.


 

My name is Madison Livingston. I am a first year at Cal State University of Fullerton and I am majoring in English and plan on double majoring in Business as well. 

I am an avid reader and writer, and I’ve played the piano for ten years. I love talking to people and getting to know their passions. I like to play video games and play volleyball in my spare time. I love to learn as much as I can and am currently in the process of writing a book.