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Early Morning in the Ozarks
Table Rock Lake sits below me. Fog covers it like a blanket whispering through the trees,
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Join us for our first annual create-a-thon fundraiser!
Join us for an interactive evening of adult fun through creating!
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Dear Mother
By Amanda Reid, 15, Illinois Dear Mother, You pushed me to do stuff I didn’t know I could do, Believing in me when no one else did, Always having faith…
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Comparison
Emily Biwer, 17, Wisconsin I stand facing this person, all I can see are her flaws. Comparing every bit of unattractiveness of her features. Her face, the reddening of acne…
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What Is This Feeling
Maybe it's Monachopsis, The feeling of being out of place. Or Athazagoraphobia, The fear of being left or abandoned.
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Intense Emotions
being abandoned feels like mourning a death
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Why Does Poetry Matter?
Our eyes see it. Our brain longs for it. For a connection.
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Sunlight and Trees
Birds and I sing together, I dance with grass – I climb the trees.
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The Flip Side
If only you saw the flipside The other side of the me that you see.
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Study For My Dream
Morpheus always shows me the same thing when I go with him. Just a window.
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Treading History
The darkest days of history begin not with pestilence and paper-burning
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Collection of Sijo Poetry
Sijo is a Korean traditional form of poetry. Sijo is written in three lines, each with four groups of 1-5 syllables with a total of 14-16 syllables per line.
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Metamorphosis
Can you hear the crisp pull of skin peeling off my lips? My eyelids? My wrist?
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Mississippi Yearning
you are a veiny thing gossamer serpent stretching its neck from stem to stern
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The Fault of the Moon
Just as the ocean’s tides recede, the waves always come back to feed.
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Synesthesia
The scent of smoke burns my skin. All I can smell are the flames burning before me.
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Double Double This This
Double mirrors and doorways— Double keys and hard drives—
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Penelope
I stitch my shroud, in quiet contemplation It is time that I race against, leaving rough edges I never hope to finish.
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Warning to Firefly-Catchers
moving in the clandestine hidden in the brush i trudge along the undergrowth cloaked in musky dusk
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An Abridged Architectural History of Old Suburban Chicago
The Queen Anne never tries to hide, slyly aligning herself to the eyes of mindful passers-by:
