Category Archives: Poetry

A&E Extra, Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Information Overload

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What you are about to hear is poem that was created in collaboration with all of Student Media. It was written by Rylee Rucker, but it could not exist in it’s current form without all of the wonderful folks who agreed to led their voices to the project. A special thanks goes out to the Beehive’s Sarah Jennings, who agreed to help record and edit the audio so that this poem could come to life.

We hope you enjoy the finished product, and that you can handle the Information Overload.

Featuring the voices of:
Sierra Bradley
Pearl Thompson
Jennifer Bennett
Evan Leichty
Sarah Jennings
Rylee Rucker
Alex Burnley
Geoff White
Yves White
Dustin Staples
Dylan Lepore
Tristan Blake Rines

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Invincible

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I still feel the throwing knives cut my Papier-Mache mind

As I create collages from the remains of my colorful memories.

Memories that have made me, but also eat away at my mind

Like camel crickets eating my clothes.

The holes almost unnoticeable unless you study me.

The bullets hit my beat-up armor bashing me,

The used ragdoll left in tatters,

Leaving black, blue, and green watercolor tattoos on my porcelain skin that only I can see

As I feel shame as a fragile doll, not the machine gun that I pretend to be.

The water fills my lungs as I continue surviving with five-second breaths,

As I pray for the black feather pillow softness of blackout,

But no, I am too stubborn to let go and ease into the darkness.

I’ve gotten too good at surviving, but not living.

Pushing the snowball up the mountain as it transforms into a lead boulder,

But still I don’t stop and give up,

Letting the boulder crush me, cracking my bones,

Smashing my rotten heart.

No, the blood in my veins pump

And my muscles cry out for relief that I won’t give.

My being deteriorates,

A zombie in disguise that won’t die.

No failure, no living, only surviving until nothing is left, but dust.

Such is life filled with pride.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

The House on the Hill

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Far above us, there sits a house on a hill.
It sits about the valley—watching, guarding, waiting—
Removed from us who live in the valley below.

Its silhouette  marks the top of the hill,
Among the trees and the clouds that abide there.
The house rests at the top of our world,
Presiding over us all.

We don’t know what lives in the house.
No one has ever made it to the top of the hill,
Always getting turned about and emerging at the bottom.

But nothing comes down the hill,
And we are safe, here in the valley.
Safe and contained.

But I am afraid.

Afraid because we know that something is there.
Something  watches over us,
Something waits at the top of our world.

And it has never hurt us, we have never seen it,
But it keeps us trapped here, in the valley,
Never lets us see what exists pasts the top of our world.

No one else sees the house the way I do.
They believe we are safe, protected.
The house and the something within it protect us.

From what? I ask, and get no reply.

I need to know that which we do not
So I will climb the hill, which leads to the top of our world.
And I will not be turned about, and I will not return,
Until I’ve met the something
That lives in the house on top of the hill.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Spring Grass

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The grass is growing green again,
Tall and dark and spread thick across the earth,
Nature’s carpeting.

The grass is growing green again,
The brown and yellow of winter is gone;
Spring is here at last.

It comes in fits and starts,
One day hot, the next so cold,
But the sun shines more every day.
As the nights grow shorter, warmer,
The grass is growing green again.

New life is rising,
Budding,
Blooming,
Growing,
Giving color to the world,
Which was so barren for so long.

The trees are budding white and pink,
The flowers blooming in rainbows,
The grass is growing green again.

The rains balance the sun,
Feeding life and cooling earth,
Washing away the woes of winter.

The grass is growing green again,
As life begins anew, fresh and thriving,
A temporary state of being, true,
But such a pleasant one.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Single Action Pistol

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I’m a loaded gun with no safety.
No one knows how to take me.
See you think you’ll be okay
Because you know my triggers,
But one false move, one mistake
And I’ll fire.
I could hit you, her, or no one
So be careful where you point me.

Wanna play Russian roulette?
Then don’t be afraid to die.
This is a game of chance.
So, it’ll only be your own fault,
The blood on your hands
Playing with a girl like me.
I’ll kill you.

Don’t you know?
Dating is a game of chance, not skill.
Yeah, we decide how many bullets to load,
But you don’t load your own gun.
I load yours and hold it to your head
And unfortunately for you
I’m fully loaded.

I’m easy to trigger,
Completely neurotic,
One day anxious
Next day depressed.
Lacking control of my emotions
They pour out of me,
The blood gushing out of a cutter’s wrist.
Don’t trigger me.

See, I used to leave my gun unloaded
Pointed against his head,
So, when he pulled my trigger
He was safe from death.
He didn’t deserve that.
I trusted him because he had protected me
So, I was unarmed.
Surprise! His gun was loaded
And when I pulled his trigger
I wish I had died
Because he betrayed me
For loving someone else.
I promise I’m fully armed now.
Don’t fuck with me.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

But a Memory

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As I look over the cherry field
I feel eyes watching me, waiting.
There is something there, something left behind
in the garden that feels caught,
dragging from thorns I never thought to see.
With sweetness but a memory, the fruit is bitter in its absence.
The insects are clearer than ever
but they shrink as I take a step back.

Every step, growing smaller.

Until the cherries from years past shine like the setting sun,
their thorns unfurled
into leaves that brushed my bleeding hands
as they promised a treasure hidden just out of sight.
The further I back away, the more effort it takes
to remember that the cherries are a memory.

To not go running forward.

I tell myself that the orchard is gone,
that the gray briars are all that remain
of that cherry field—
the briars that I planted
as a child, in search of sweeter fruit.
In my hunger, I choked the cherries
that stood tall and still do,

But only in my memories.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Mr. Flubber

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Mr. Flubber

You thought it was funny,

To rhyme my name of Glover,

Which I have a heritage with,

With a term to remind me

Why I can’t decide on what shirt to wear,

Why people grab my chest,

Why that girl smacked me on the backside,

And discuss what bra size I was,

Calling me Mr. Tiddies,

When I was only 10 years old,

When maybe the reason,

I was overweight

Has to do with the fact I wasn’t fed as a baby,

I didn’t find it funny,

I was just mentally,

Physically,

And spiritually wounded,

And why these marks on my stomach remind me

Of my messed up childhood.

Thank you,

No sarcasm,

Because you reminded me each day that I should not chew gum,

And that I should starve myself,

And that today I’m not fat with an “f”,

I’m phat with a “ph”.

Mr. Flubber

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

The Courier

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Cometh o’er gentle stair
A steady stomp, the blast of air
Aglow in moonlight’s pallid glare
The storm of pounding, pearly mare
To guide its rider seek…
From vinework thick and forest dark
Did glow the sudden steely spark
And roar of rifle’s thunderous bark
To paint the crimson creek.

Ended was the mission dire,
Tossed from powder’s seething pyre
Splashed amid the muddied mire
Saved from roaring flash of fire
Did the courier shriek.
And did the savior rear up high
A pillar rising to the sky
Was not its purpose here to die
To save its rider, weak?

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Their Day – A Snapshot

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A woman walks through the garden
Golden roses with fiery edges,
Periwinkle forget-me-nots, pink hydrangeas, and yellow daffodils.
You can barely hear the gravel crunch
Under her black and brown cowboy boots
As Prayed for You by Matt Stell
Flows through the speakers
Slithering into every crevice
Of the hearts of their guests.

She crosses the old wooden bridge
Over the pond,
Notes her reflection in the water,
A mature yet young angel draped in lace,
The sunshine making her glow
Like god’s divine light shining down.

Her gaze falls on her lover
With a smile on her blushing face
And glassy happy eyes.
There he stands with a goofy smile,
Wearing a navy vest, cream shirt,
Blue jeans, and brown dress boots,
His brothers by his side
And her best friends waiting for her,
Her daddy wearing a suit, aging blue eyes,
And whitish hair that once was fiery red.
He holds her arm, leading her to the gazebo
To give her away.

The moment is here as she and her love
Stand in front of her pastor.
He reads 2nd Corinthians and Song of Songs.
They tie the knot—gold and red,
Read their vows, and finally he
Slides a titanium band on her left ring finger
Complementing the diamonds shining
On her engagement ring.
She, in turn, slips his tungsten band
On his large sandpaper rough left ring finger.
Love wraps his arms around her
And they kiss as they melt into one with God.

Another love song fills the crowd as they recess
To go take photos for lasting memories
As if they could forget this emotional day.

Later she dances with her daddy as he leads,
Far more confident than she is as she shakes
And resists the urge to look at her feet.
He holds her and twirls her
Like he did when she was five
Until the song comes to an end.

Her husband joins her on the dance floor
For I Swear by John Michael Montgomery.
Everyone who knows them knows they practiced
Because they both usually can’t dance
Unless it’s silly make fun type dancing.
He spins her round and round, dips her,
And steals kisses when he can
As if they can’t wait to be alone
Or are rather proud of this new privilege.

Dancing, food, and speeches consume the rest of the
Night until they cut the cake and smear some
On each other’s noses,
Laughing in silliness as he takes his finger
And licks it off as she blushes
Red as clown makeup.

She throws the bouquet,
Which is caught by her cousin,
Who is to be married in a year.
Her husband removes her garter,
Which is thrown and caught
By his younger brother.
Eventually, they leave ready to be alone
And live their lives together
As lifelong loving partners.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Take Me Home

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I am 9 years old with long curly brown hair.
I am three foot tall, weighing next to nothing
With giant burnt brown eyes.
I’m on the playground sitting on the cross
Of the ship made of giant Lincoln logs
With a tearstained red blotchy face
And rosy nose snotty and swollen.
Take me home.

I am dull and unable to read or write,
But good at math though slow.
I was once happy friends with everyone,
Considered a positive “happy” girl,
Despite being stupid.

I am persecuted by adults and later children
Who were once my best friends.
I am an outcast among my peers, family;
Even those who should protect me, take turns stabbing with spears.

I smile in church,
Leading worship,
Singing “I am a flower quickly fading, Here today and gone tomorrow.”
If only… Take me home.

On the cross, I sit alone again
And all I have is you, God.
Please take me home. Continue reading Take Me Home →

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Featured, Poetry

Within the Ice

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Far to the North,
Before the world’s End,
There’s a cave in the Ice,
Where no mortal dare tread.

On the surface is beauty,
Blue ice rising from white snow,
Catching the light on the sun,
Hiding secrets we will never know.

Deep within those ice blue walls,
Where the world knows only cold,
Lie sleeping creatures terrible and great,
Lost since days of old.

Slumbering giants trapped below,
Alive and waiting in the dark.
The sun does not reach them there,
Yet they await its warming spark.
Within the Ice they’ve slept for years,
Creatures old and patient still.
What difference does a century make,
When faced with such an ancient will?

One day they will arise once more,
Though it’s doubtful to be soon.
When they come they’ll bring the cold,
And trap us all beneath the moon.

The world was dark and fearful once,
And one day those fears will return.
But for now, they sleep beneath the ice,
Until they feel the sun’s sweet burn.

Photo by David Rucker

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Why So Paranoid?

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I carry a black four-inch pocket knife
covered in roses in my boot,
And pink mini mace next to a white alarm
hung around my neck.

A year ago, I got scared of a dog
when it ran up on me and my friends.
And I screamed, being heard by all
four buildings around us.
And PD got called because
someone thought I was hurt.
I was told, “You’d never get hurt
with a pair of lungs like that.”

I am taught men are wild creatures
that can’t control themselves.
I never wore short skirts and low-cut tops,
I always wore comfy t shirts with jeans.
I never went to parties with my friends
Or took drinks from others
Because I was paranoid.

But it still happened.
It’s my fault I trusted you.
I went alone into your room unarmed.
It’s my fault I believed a pathological liar.
That I couldn’t stop you.
That I couldn’t scream.
That I froze.
All I could do was beg you to stop and cry.
It is your fault it happened.

I carry a four-inch fixed blade knife on my hip
And a pink bedazzled taser in my purse.
One day I’ll replace them with a neck knife
hanging under my shirt
And a .380 baby rock pistol
concealed on my side.

I keep guys at yard length.
Never go in rooms alone.
Never let my guard down even with friends
Because what if he has bad intentions too?

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Rosy Revolver

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Your Bolivian Rosewood grip fits and melds into my palm,
A custom-made extension of my limb that feels completely organic.
Your barrel stainless steel with intricate roses engraved on you,
Like beautiful wild roses covering the soft skin of a woman’s ribs.

I see the essence of you in your reflective mirror.
I envision a strong woman holding a red rose covered in briars
Cutting her palm, dripping blood as she refuses to let go.
When I hold you, I am reminded of the old days
When I didn’t need, but I desired you.
When I looked at you only admiring your beauty.

Your cylinder holds six .38 specials.
I pull your trigger and you push out the bullets
And kick up like a woman dancing choreography you know well.
Cock and pull back, explode out, push forward, kick up and repeat five times then reload.

I feel the reassuring icy touch of you digging into my side
Constantly reminding me you’re there.
You’re the type of woman often called a bitch
But truly you just have an ironclad heart
As you protect those who you hold dear.

Some may fear you because you are ‘dangerous,’
But you are as safe as a kitchen knife
So long as I am careful you won’t hurt anyone,
But if I am threatened
You’re a mama bear prepared to protect.

They try to ban you, take you away,
And, yes, not everyone deserves you.
But just because you can hurt
Doesn’t mean you should be taken away.
Most of us who love you
Use mama bear to protect us
Or just keep you to admire your beauty.
So why should you be taken away from us
When we never abused you?

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Nostalgic Night

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A woman sits on the bar stool next to him,
Sipping on a glass of Jim Beam whiskey and Sprite,
Smelling sweet like bittersweet honeysuckles
From that bush outside her childhood church.
A Marlboro slate cigarette in her mouth
That he lights with a match from her purse,
Smelling like a mini campfire.
She breathes in the menthol,
A bitterness like burnt mint leaves
Meant to garnish an extravagant meal
That she burnt in the kitchen
When she got distracted by him.
She breathes out a cloud of smoke
That rolls out like a storm
Smelling of nostalgia.

He remembers when she first tried one
At a bonfire when she was wine drunk and young.
She was angry, going to the bottle for numbness
After a fight with her mother.
She bummed a cigarette off him
And had to be taught how to smoke it.
She couldn’t even light it by herself
Without burning her fingers.
She breathed it in, a knot tight in her throat,
A nicotine high making the world spin,
A turntable of numbness from the feeling,
Breathing out apathy with no regret.

Now she smiles at him with dark red lips as if painted with blood,
A mischievous sparkle in her eyes like the diamonds on her left hand.
She orders a strawberry martini as he orders another pitcher of beer.
Revisiting the past in a bar both of them know well.
It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?

She grabs his hand and drags him after her,
Her long dress spinning to the music,
Daisies spun in the hand of a flower girl.
She sings all while he watches her.
She’s still ferociously adorable,
Even when she tries to be an adult.
She can’t hide it around him,
Giggling as they dance
Like they did on their wedding day.

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Ode to Hot Sauce

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You burn my tongue
Yet your taste tempts me on
I twist and lift your top
And sniff your essence
My eyes water

You flavor my fries
You coat my wings
And drip onto my ramen
I crave you on all foods now
Is it an obsession or a phase?

Tabasco, Texas Pete, Taco Bell Fire
My forehead sweaty
My nose runny
Lips burning
I love the feeling of the burn

I savor your flavor and
Capture the rapture of the sensation
Every moment you’re in my mouth
I keep water at my side
Although not even H2O can stop the heat

I tried to hold back the tears
But one day I couldn’t fight it anymore
The burn, the thrill became part of me
One day it might backfire
But I like to Live Mas

Twitt
Arts & Entertainment, Poetry

Love Poem

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Hand raised,

Flinch and cover,

“Don’t hit me,”

In response to a loving caress of the cheek.

Pushed up against the wall,

Panic, “I can’t escape.”

Passionate kisses are impossible.

Grabbing wrist gently.

“No.” I must be able to fight.

“Don’t restrain me.”

I trust you,

But memories come back

Of every hurt you never inflicted.

I am fearful of speaking my mind

Because he screamed at me.

“You’re just my slut….

No one will want you….

You are selfish….

You are worthless…

I am the only one who loves you.”

He beat me,

Leaving watercolor rectangular bruises on the back of my thighs,

Smacking my face when I misbehaved.

He made me do whatever he wanted,

Covered me in kisses like nothing ever happened,

A bad dream nothing more.

My love never treated me like a broken porcelain doll

But rather saw me,

Beautiful and strong,

An invincible girl mistreated and deserving of love.

Love says, “You deserve everything.”

Love gave me back to myself after he destroyed me.

Love still has to deal with the scars of my past,

But never tires of loving and caring for me.

Love treats me like a warrior princess

Holding me close to his chest,

Always understanding of what I need.

Love is my everything.

Twitt