Category: Poetry

Ashlyn Kimball

WINCO

WeneedHaveBEEPyouHowBREADBEEPMILKseenher?HEAVYCREAMBEEPareyouWherea
reyou!?BEEPWATERComeoverhereBEEP!TodayICEBOLONGASitDown!BEEPBANANAS
Wow! you got a great deal on the meat!
SLAMsqueakBEEPTSSHSLAMtaptaptapBEEPHHMMSLAMcoughSLAMBEEPtaptaptapclan gsnapsmackBEEPSHRIEKcoughCRYthumpthumpthumpBEEPsnapMOANclang!squeakBEEPT SSHsplatBEEPknockknockknockHMMMBEEP
Would you like any bags today?
BANG|BANG|BANG|BANG|BANG|BANG
R U N.
blurry. afraid. knee pain. aching soles. concrete. blacktop. i’m holding a stack of bags.
i can’t breathe.
the air is thick and hot. I l
Breathe In And Out Breathe In And Out.
i cant.
pick up the phone. CALL MOM.
Fast.
Heavy.
Breathe In And Out Breathe In And Out.
“THEY FIRED GUNSHOTS!”
“WHAT!? WHERE ARE YOU?”
|BANG|
“GET DOWN! I’M ON MY WAY”

Bio: Ashlyn Kimball is a nonbinary queer individual majoring in English with a focus on literature. They enjoy creative writing and art on their free time. Currently they are employed at Winco but are working toward attaining their teaching credentials.

Shane Hubert

A Castle

My safeguard is 

The morning light 

Reflecting off 

The silver creek 

And so I am free 

From the field of nothing

Who buries me

Like rotten wood 

Dressed with nails 

Punctured

As a doll’s wardrobe 

Finds her porcelain skin 

Rapturous, a bloom long between ages

Bought by a sonic prophecy

Written in a book with fleece pages 

With ruling words strung of yarn 

If tears could freeze they’d still fall

Down the sleeping hill to run up 

And read aloud, it said 

list 

shores and oceans seashells

crab 

hermit

 

prey 

hunter 

arrow 

sparrow 

crow 

feather 

weather 

me 

precious metals 

trophy wives 

rings 

dings 

bell 

inner ear 

equilibrium 

no more change 

elsewhere

missed 

kissed 

adored 

alone

whether or not you love

i

sharp as knives

rings

dings

losing balance

elsewhere

atone

pray 

prey

picking petals

rings

dings

quell the fear

losing balance

stuck

stay

play

don’t go away

elsewhere

Uncover

I saw 

​A miracle diminished by man 

​Soft tears marring a sacred beauty 

​Blinding all with its reflection of light 

I saw 

​And felt from afar 

​The draw of the end 

​Of brave life and my love 

I saw 

​The swift death 

​Of holy steadfast spirit 

​As claws tore my passion 

I saw 

​A man 

​Removed from sanctum 

​Shredded to fine detritus 

I saw

​Pendula

​Fall away 

​Down to earth 

I saw 

​

​Stability  

​Lose purchase 

I saw 

​

You ​​​​​

Bio: Shane Huberts is currently a student in his fourth and set to be final year at CSUSM. He enjoys gardening, watching movies, and being around people that he loves.

Sofía Folwarski

Certainty’s Mystique.

One day

I drove past our grove

The brilliant trees echoing

The charming street

Except

The trees were vapid

Vacant, sick

They need rest

Their beauty seemed so certain

Untouchable

The vibrant green turned murky

Full leaves that dried, crippling the pavement

What seemed so sure

Met time

The radiant youth

Reinforced the grove

Preparing for a new season

One where their growth 

Required patience to the perceivers

Yesterday

I drove past our grove

Flowers sung on leaves that sprinkled the deep hues

Greens I had never seen

Melodies of the wind

Aided in certainty’s mystique

Seasons embraced

The change

That keeps the grove 

Free.

Karma’s Stride

On nights like these

When well known streams

Pile from my eyes

Into dedicated lakes

Of disappointment

I wonder

If the wise, majestic waters

I cultivated

Were deserved

If the streams riddled

By budding deception, agony

Are just a consequence

A reprisal

Of karma’s stride

That has followed me here

Caught me finally

All that I had be running from

Running through my eyes onto the cold pavement

The seeds I had sewn

Blossoming just in time for spring.

Sofía Folwarski is a proud multiracial writer, accrediting her Nicaraguan, Filipina and Polish heritage to her artistic identity. She writes poetry, screenplays, and short stories for now, but is open to creativity always and how that wishes to be expressed. In her free time she enjoys singing, watching movies (specifically psychological thrillers, horror and romance), and learning new languages, right now: Portuguese.

Miranda Morris

Highway Lovers

You left us lying there draped across the highway

Porcupine love letters 

Quills shoved into arteries 

Lies shooting forth in blood like geysers

Where are your magic tricks?

We dance on the tightrope 

Rope tight 

We are lovers        We were lovers

You left us lying there draped across the highway

Be still        the night is calling.         Crying

Trying       to rebuild bones from sand

The castle crumbled

Rain fell in sheets

Deserts drank their fill        overflowing

Flash flood      Santa Ana 

Oasis               Mirage

Draped across     the highway

Left us lying there 

Lovers.

Kept on the highest shelf

Rode bicycles sideways down alleys 

Ringing bells while cards slipped from spokes 

Make-believe was only beautiful in my imagination 

Ran backward through wildflowers 

Watching stars dance with lightening bugs 

Fell into bliss 

Rivers of cinnamon milk and honey 

Captured by heartstrings 

Strummed

Guitar strings strung

Drums beat with hands bare

Feet move slow in water heavy

Encircled and entranced

Estranged yet entangled

Why does forever feel so far away

So close I can almost touch

Standing on tiptoes 

The cookie jar shattered

The Top Drawer of my Dresser/Thoughts

I watch a cockroach crawl across the lace on the bottom of my bra

The part where your fingers soft trailed slowly, I struggle to hold tears back

Unsure 

Am I crying because of you or the roaches?

Possibly it is that I can write comparisons 

How you both touch my intimate thoughts/things.

Touch me while I sleep 

That bring tears

You are gone

The cockroach remains

Your caress no longer covers his

My relationship with the roach more intimate than the one I share with you.

Tuesday Morning

Blowing Bubbles Tuesday morning in the bathroom before brushing my teeth, standing here in only dark purple underwear, the elastic sags. Staring in the mirror, I journey through the small tear near the elastic on top, my vision a thread pulling the fraying fabrics of life nearer to the faux marble countertop. Spitting, I watch surrender swirl down the sink into oblivion—Salt n Peppa blasts out of the speakers. The alarm went off at 6 am, and I rolled out of bed like every morning. Is the shaking of the walls, floor, and ceiling from the bass reverberating, or are my neighbors upset? Everything looks small up here from the back of the toilet/top of the balcony: limitless. Directing streams of paper boats/boys, dolls/dreams, I turn up the orchestra. There is no way out of the shower curtain, no way to untangle pigtails, and the smell of spam. No way to remove roots navigating through eye sockets. No way to throw dirt off a body that’s never been found.

Author Bio

Miranda is an avid writer, reader, and daydreamer,  still making wishes on stars and talking to the man on the moon. She has four children who teach her as much as she teaches them. She loves spending quality time with them and having new adventures together as a family.

Guadalupe Romero

My Roots

They left behind their home 
Leaving their way of life

In pursuit of a new life 
New opportunities

            Starting a journey into the unknown 

How would they thrive in this new land?

No hablo inglés.
            Doors slammed in their face 
            Obstacles at every turn they make

No nos alcanza el dinero
            They can only afford beans
            They can only afford hand-me-downs

Temenos hijos
            Their children come first
            They can survive with the clothes on their backs, 
            but their baby needs new clothes

Ve a la escuela y estudia
            They push their children to be better than them 
            Push them toward a better life

Soy hija de inmigrantes
            Everything I have, has been earned
            Following my dreams to make my parent proud

Soy Mexicana
            I have brown eyes and brown skin
            I face obstacles due to the color of skin 
            But I am proud to be Mexican

Soy Americana
            I have better opportunities in this land 
            I can follow my dreams
            I am proud to be American 

I am a Mexican-American

Guadalupe Romero is currently finishing her last semester at California State University, San Marcos with a major in Kinesiology and a minor in Literature and Writing. She discovered her passion for literature and writing while taking AP Literature class in high school. She likes that the subjects she is studying require her to think critically or allows her imagination to run wild. Her writing can have a combination of the human body’s experience while telling a fictional story. She plans to pursue a career in the medical field while keeping her hobby of writing and reading to keep her sane through all the science courses.

Kaila Fergon

Summer’s Ghost  

Orange and russet and copper float into the world  with soft sighs along with  
the smell of burning woodsmoke and  
a bitter chill in the air,  
creeping in as the sun slips lower.  

Summer’s ghost wails with a mourning  
through the burning leaves,  
and they fall to the ground —  
orange and red and yellow,  
like embers from a fire  
floating softly to the earth. 
 
Autumn rises up and takes the world with both hands  with bitter cold, fiery leaves, long nights.  It puts Summer’s ghost in the ground  
little by little as August ends,  
as the sun slips lower,  
as the days grow colder,  
September sings Summer to its grave. 
 
But it is such a stunning death —  
the world soaked in gold and flame,  
everything sharp and crisp and clear,  
cinnamon on your lips,  
cold air on your face,  
and something burning on the wind. 
 
It is the beginning of another world entirely,  that September brings and December 
buries,  a lovely death and a lovely beginning. 
 
It is late October and  
I can hear Summer’s ghost calling from the grave.  It is not wailing, I realize after all this time,  
it’s singing — humming some haunting love song  for colors it will never touch  
and can only give way to.

Kaila Fergon was born and raised in Palm Springs, CA. She now lives in Carlsbad with her big chocolate lab, Loki, and a whole bunch of house plants. When she’s not working as a barista, she can be found at some other coffee shop reading a book with her dog at her feet, or dragging her paddle board down to the lagoon. Kaila is studying English and linguistics at Cal State San Marcos. After graduating with her English degree, she hopes to find a job within the writing/editing field and spend as much time as possible traveling and reading good books.

Isabella Abril

The Purple Visitor

Lavender, lilac, irises
Stare up at me, sheepishly, from the garden. 
Timid and rooted in place,
My voice a whisper I soothe, “You’ll be alright”.

Out from the flowers
She flutters a delicate flight with iridescent wings. A beautiful, tiny fairy,
With the most marvelous purple eyes I’ve ever seen.

A lost one, at that.
Her voice a flowing harp, she speaks her woes, 
“I became separated”.
From her colony, during the great migration.

Out of pity and awe,
I offer her a silver teaspoon of honey and sugar. 
She sips and she rests
Until the morning light. And when I go out

To the garden
Once more on the dawn of the following day, 
I find she has gone.

Passerby aside, I tend to my lavender, lilac, and irises.

Party of the Matriarch

Bright glistening balloons filled the room
My lungs deflated as I gave life to the last one. 
An unfamiliar feast sat atop the table
With a few familiar foods from long ago.


Lumpia.

            Adobo.

                         Pancit.



A momentary pause from gossip, my Tita says, 
“Try this one.” and adds a pastry to my plate.
I sit back, my ears eager to listen to new sounds 
Nodding my head, as if I perfectly understood.


With bellies full, smiles spread, and if you look 
Close enough you could see food stuck in teeth. 
But that does not matter, when you are Jolly-
Because the festivities are about to really begin.



The dusty karaoke got wheeled out from the closet. 
My Tito held up the mic, and lived out his daydreams
 
Of a superstar in his mother-in-law’s living room. 
They danced and sang along to a familiar song,


But I had to read the words from the t.v. screen.
I remembered the lyrics, “Awitin mo at isasayaw ko” 
And when the party ended I discovered the meaning. 
“Sing and I will dance.” “Sing and I will dance.”


I’ve since learned all of the lyrics on my own. 
Sometimes I find myself in my own living room, 
Humming along to that tune and fondly remember 
The gathering and celebration of my Filipino family.

Isabella “Isa” Abril is an undergraduate student at Cal State San Marcos.  She enjoys writing poetry and short stories. Although she does not entirely believe in the supernatural, she would like any and all spirits who happen to stumble across her to respectfully leave her alone. Unless they can do something really cool. 

Rachel Schultz

One Home

Everyone is born into the same home
Earth is the main home for all of its 
occupants People, creatures, and other living 
things
Mother Nature has endured much suffering with the rise of human advancements
An advantage to humans now is a disadvantage to other living things, and later us
From a young age we’re taught to clean up after ourselves and to leave a space cleaner than 
youfound it
Why does that not apply to some for Earth 
itself? Is it because the mess can not be seen?
The garbage patches floating in the oceans
The garbage dumps hidden away from plain 
sightIt may feel convenient to not care now
But people always care when it’s too late

Rachel Schultz is a 3rd-year psychology major with a minor in literature and writing at CSUSM. Alongside being a student she also works a part-time job. She aspires to be a high school teacher.

Brendan Cox

Ballad of the Souls Part I (My Leviathan)

Pale beaches,
and a spectral colored sea.
These are the
things important to me.
Underneath
waves of pink, blue, and red
is Her only:
the creature in my head.
She was selfish,
angelic Leviathan,
keeping color
for Herself and not the sand.
I wrote a song
and cast my lure into blue,
but deeper She
swam into different hues.
She was desperate
to escape my lyrics and pleas,
that begged Her to bring
Her love to the colorless beach.
I dove from the dock,
descending for thousands of leagues
in hasty pursuit,
pushing on despite my fatigue.
The pressure was building.
I felt like I was starting to choke
on deeply dyed water.
Close to death with words I hadn’t yet spoke.

That was when I saw Her

laying on the dark of the sea floor,
rooted and unmoving,
refusing to return to the shore.
“Won’t you share your hues?”, I plead.
With a blush that lit up the dark She said
She couldn’t remember how.
I leaned in and kissed Her beautiful head.
I gave Her my hand and I
sang to Her until She heard from my song
that She was the puzzle piece
that I had been searching for all along.
We embraced
and we wept star colored tears.
She’s my life.
It’s like we’ve been apart years.
Now my sand
is no longer grainy snow,
but instead
shines an immaculate glow.
And Her sea
brews with life at every end.
Here, our home,
me and my Leviathan.

I am Brendan Cox and I’m currently a third-year student here at CSUSM pursuing my degree in Literature and Writing Studies. While creative writing hadn’t been my preferred area of the degree, I’ve deeply grown to love it. I’ve always had a passion for writing horror, and I think that reflects in my writing. When I’m not writing I love playing music and expressing myself in any other creative area I can get my hands on.

Vincent A. Bernabeo

The Lake

Pink sky envelops
A moment, caught in time
A monument, from another world

Once a force of destruction
Volcano, deadfall, ash and cinder
Now, a visage of calm

Serene, native plants
Creatures and life in an endless cycle
The skeleton of destruction makes way for inspiration

Nature is calculated in its chaos
The lake, resembling a man…
Pissing…into the wind

Vincent A. Bernabeo is a Literature and Writing student at CSUSM; he has extensively studied literature in both cinema and the written word. Vincent strives to prove that it is never too late in life to pursue one’s dreams to his beautiful wife and three children. He is interested in writing and consuming any and all forms of entertainment, and champions for the literary merit of pop-culture texts. Vincent’s poetry is largely inspired by both his personal experiences and the critical theories he studies at CSUSM; his work often plays with the very concept of language itself to unravel the mysteries that captivate and often subjugate humans all over the world.