Meta it would be
If I counted syllables
one, two, three, four, five
Meta it would be
If I counted syllables
one, two, three, four, five
Brightly dying leaves scatter the damp ground
Drying Red painted on the greenest moss
Bare trees weep from the caress of the wind
The suns cold rays scattered by reaching branches
Small animals scurrying in the under brush
A single rabbit emerges
It’s coat matching the decaying ground
Searching for the fruit of life
While avoiding the Shadow of Death
Large yellow eyes appear in the distance
Life holds it’s breath
The rabbit bolts
Taking the path of the Wind
Over fallen trees
Through pricking bushes
Trying to stay in the light
Never losing sight
Slamming into the impressionable dirt
A coat darker than midnight
Casting shadows on its prey
The running stops
The sounds of struggling ceases
Rewards are reaped
Painting the green canvas
The cabin fever
Settles in your very bones
Once it’s been a week
This summer I saw a firefly.
It hit my windshield going ninety.
I recognized it only by its glow.
As I watched that light,
surprisingly bright on impact,
slowly fade to a dull smear,
I remembered death.
I remembered Clara.
I remembered an uncle.
I remembered fur-babies and friendships.
Grief seems to be a forced emotion.
Dramatic feelings painted on the body like a costume.
When the lights go down,
can you see my heart break?
Is it enough to prove I loved you fully?
For an eyes-off-the-road moment,
aghast at my poetic mistake.
If I was Super; Continue reading Dependable
You wanna know the college life?
Late nights with drunk friends,
Frat juice on our shoes,
Jell-O shots that are missed when gone,
And Benny’s pizza … enough said. Continue reading You wanna know the college life?
Do not know;
What a pleasure it must be
To watch (your) roots grow
And see something turn into trees. Continue reading We
A single green leaf,
Reaching for the sky.
Feeling the heat of the sun.
And the kiss of the wind.
It caresses her,
Coaxes her to be free,
She lets go. Continue reading Cycles of Mine
Hear the sound of hope,
Overcome this great struggle,
You are not alone.
Rage like a red sea, searching for my Moses.
Longing for him to part it so I can find my promised land,
but I don’t think I can survive 40 years in the wilderness,
the 20 I have spent have taken their toll.
The desert’s all too easy temperature of 76 makes me wonder if I’m even here at all. Continue reading Moses
‘Tis better to have loved than lost (they say)
Than never to have loved at all
With nothing ventured, nothing gained
But death therein the fall
So too, like winter, this shall pass
the frost of heartache to thaw
Like all on earth; not meant to last
Leaving memory to live on
By wish, by want, what spell you cast
That I never be your own
O cursed knife which pierced my heart
and turned it into stone
I loved you once, I love you still
Though ’twas never meant to be
But worst of all, the salt in wound
you freaking friend-zoned me.
Hollow’s Eve, The Devil’s night
they are doomed to feed his appetite.
Thus to remain another year
11 months and one for fear. Continue reading The Pact
Cars clamored, jacks hammered, citizens stammered through the city streets, which were alive and functioned like a rusty gear, stiff and forceful.
People rushed to and from with technology that works by thumb, and I could see that even some had bags of products that must have cost gold.
Nobody was smiling.
Even myself with optimistic eyes, fiddled with my phone with absolute despise, the warranty that of course implies that should a problem come to arise such as a biker thugs crack the phone in two, perhaps someone cooked it a stew, or a meteor comes crashing down causing an explosion that sends my phone into a burning abyss till its demise.
Or in this case if my battery dies. Continue reading I Once Heard a Blind Man Laugh
To say who one is is not as simple as it may seem,
But that’s the beauty of it, for it’s like a half forgotten dream.
You know that you are here and yet strangely undefined,
Never sure if you are really real or merely in your mind. Continue reading The essence of
My desire for
sleep is the ultimate cause
of my suffering.
We wear our skin like costumes,
hoping it’ll change with the season and in
the deep, dark hours of the night,
no one will catch us sliding them off as we slip into bed.
If you walked into the Bonnie Hurlburt Student Center on the evening of Nov. 2, you would have emerged into quite a different scene than the usual hustle and bustle of hungry and stressed college students. Among those waiting in line to get their meals were the excited and enthusiastic faces of those in charge of Exit 109, Radford University’s student-run literary and arts magazine.
For those who didn’t know about Exit 109, the event in the Bonnie was aimed to do exactly that — make students aware that the magazine exists and give samples of some of the creative writing that can be submitted. Hungry students looked on curiously as volunteers from R-SPaCE and Exit 109 set up their equipment and display — complete with an assortment of desserts and samples of the literary magazine. As the event began to take shape, another volunteer went table-to-table, asking dining students if they’d like to go up on stage and take part in the poetry reading.
Poetry books were passed around the tables as volunteers scribbled their names down on the sign-up sheet. The Bonnie was the perfect place to host an event like this, where Exit 109 could reach a wide audience and get publicity.
Things got off to a quick start as the members of Exit 109 took the stage and read off poems they brought and prepared to applause. The stage fright was obvious in some readers, but they mustered up the courage to read unfamilliar poetry with no preparation. One girl on stage swung back and forth with nervousness, as if she was 5 years old again, wearing a flouncy pink skirt and twirling to inflate it with airflow. Volunteers’ searched the crowd for familiar faces, but most stayed glued to the white pages they were reading off of, for fear they’d stumble over the words.
Poetry is the expression of emotion when and wherever it wants to come out. Poems scribbled in hurried handwriting on the backs of crumpled pocket paper, notes from class, table tents from the Bonnie, napkins with holes from a hard-pressed pen; anything can be a medium for a poet’s words. We heard a lot of original poetry from RU students, our peers expressing themselves publicly because, why not? Write anywhere you want to, anytime you’re inspired. Fellow artists out there, you know inspiration isn’t always easy to come by, so take advantage of it.
If you like what you create and want to show it off and get a little recognition, try publishing it with Exit 109 or taking part in their spontaneous and creative readings, it’s an experience not soon to be forgotten.