Sometimes, awake or asleep, I dream.
This vision, this perspective of the universe lingers.
It is trapped, with no escape, nowhere to go. A lost prisoner in his own prison cell;
my mind. However life is like a dream, many times not in our
control as to what will happen next. One can only see it,
one can only hear it, feel it, touch it, smell it, in this illusion-like aura we call a dream.
“Interpret a dream,” said Mr. Jean. I cannot interpret a dream Mr. Jean.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
But is life but a dream?
Are we all combusted in some pathological universe consistent
of billions of units in never ending dreams?
I see individuals involved in their own divine interventions and
I cannot believe, perceive nor receive such captivity.
Such sporadic occurrence. It's all a dream, an unrealistic
layout, some would call it a fantasy.
However, if a dream really is “a wish your heart makes,” why do nightmares exist?
- Caroline Iglesias
Glitz and glam.
Boom and bam the cameras go as the excessive amount of photos are being taken for that “million dollar shot.”
Add a little more here, subtract some for over there. So that that hour glass shape is pronounced more and more each time you flip it around to keep track of time.
The years go by, but time will remain the same because the tucks and pulls will work their own magic.
We love them, we adore them, we admire them. Wait but, why? Same question we all ask ourselves silently as we continue obsessing.
They suck the fat out of their bodies and the life out of their men. Knock knock, what was that? Divorce at the door. Knock knock, what was that? Oh, it's divorce and he brought his friend this time. Knock knock, what was that? Oh yeah, crippling depression and a weight gain of about 200+ pounds.
But, happiness is here. Clothes the price of homes. A car a day keeps... well? Not the doctor, because we knock on his door every so often.
Glitz and glam, I own all the jam in the land, I serve all the fitz amongst the fam. Somewhere along the way, materialism consumed us and happiness was just but an illusion. We forgot how to love for money can’t buy it, and it seems that is all we know how to do— swipe our credit cards and fling that cash.
- Caroline Iglesias
Dancing under the stars,
Everything feels warm and
Soft despite the familiar
Cold of the winter wonderland
Red noses and numb fingers
Invade the moment,
But nothing can stop the eager
Energy surrounding the engagement
Lost in the sensation
Of never wanting to feel
Void of the hallucination
Evoked by what is hoped to be real
Pulled further into this
Light and joyful atmosphere
Even the freezing air cannot dismiss
As, in your mind, there is nowhere but here
Still, the words have further meanings.
Examine the beginnings.
- Corrina Farnum
Cherry clear balm covers her lips un-cracked,
Smiling at space felt in single nights,
Warmed by own sure light, she is
Daisy child of thought.
Gloss - tinted pink - smeared on lips over balm
Fidgeting breath and crossed finger-toes Personality cramped in
A clutch, unfit
Spring roses, a gift.
Applying the gloss for months, a cycle
To remember the first evening night.
She cannot remember when
She last swiped on
Her comfort lip balm.
One night a red is shown to glow upon
A smile of sultry intent
Cannot be dismissed, undone Leaves for her date,
No balm for chapped lips.
Back again, she has come with corroded
Red lipstick quoting action for
The man she loves.
Blows a chill in air.
Darker falling stains on those lips decay.
No reds or pinks can stay in this time.
Bitter brown leaves cover the floor
Of an altar
To love unrestored.
With her lips black, no one can see the truth.
The horror her love has wrought on thee.
Bruises tender, tears sting cuts.
Lost self, no help.
Shelved winter branches.
Time passes within a depressed, cold state
Her lips no longer support the weight
Of colors. She cries quiet,
Covers more hurt
To hide his dead harm.
Finally, someone sees her snowy gaze,
Fighting alone in disastrous haze,
Spring blooms late, chokes him away,
Recovers in found
- Marina Kaye
Title of a Poem
It opens, perhaps, with a simile, or a metaphor,
Or some other figurative language
That the reader, not entirely sure,
And marvel at, led down a path
In the very moment it unfolds
And deep in it at last
Comes to a turn
Rising to a deeper meaning
The veil lifted, the heart laid bare
The culmination of such craft and conceit
To not tell, but show
Painting an impression with suggestions
Making music with silent notes
Making the picture all the more profound by its frame
Then close, with a simple line
Only as much to say:
This is my truth.
- Matthew Palacios
He thought he had already moved the cup
To safety, away from the table’s edge
Before, by chance, his elbow’s careless bump
Could catch it and tip it over the ledge.
And with force shatter into jagged bits
The glass, once delicate, pristine, and whole,
Now naught but pieces coming then to sit
Like scattered stars upon the wooden floor
He quit his bench and rose to sweep the mess
All the while knowing he had got caught up
In the thrill of his work and thus, careless,
Had become the end of his treasured cup.
With a sigh, his heart knew (regretting, though)
That there comes a time when all things must go.
- Matthew Palacios
When he was borned,
He was a lucky child.
He was surrounded with those whom he loved
Handled with care, blessings, and smiles
When he was three,
He was very kind.
He shared his toys with all his friends in class.
He helped the poor, he aided the blind.
When he was six,
He was intelligent.
He could name all the English letters,
Count backward, play and instrument.
When he was ten,
He was called "weird,"
Because he can’t eat bread crust nor sign his name.
Because of what he wear and how he appeared.
When he was twelve,
He was a butterball.
At least that’s what they call him following their laughs, Regardless of how he feel small.
When he was fifteen,
He was stupid and dumb.
Not because he can’t solve a calculus problem,
But because he came from a slum.
When he was eighteen,
He was lonely and empty inside.
He tried to go with the flow and commit to the norm.
He speaks of others’ words, while his thoughts he hides.
When he is ending this poem,
He shall forever have peace.
For there is no longer sufferings and deceptions where he is about to go.
And so he looks up to the night sky. And so his life he ceases.
- Minh Le
The Crayon Box
First grade kids were taught color
And how they fit each other.
As roses are bright red
And clouds are white, and breads are brown.
The teacher, before school ends,
Assign homework for weekend.
“Draw and color,” she said.
“The highest grade, the best will get.”
Homework he did, got right on,
Even brought out his crayons.
Sun and mountain and trees,
Houses and fields, and seas and bees.
Following week he awaits.
Rushed from his car to the gate.
Every student was there,
He was the first to share his work.
“Wow, so nice!” the students cried
His art sure did caught their eyes.
But then there were questions,
To the distinctions, they point.
“Why is your tree bright yellow?”
“Why is there black on meadow?”
“Shouldn’t mountain be gray?”
“And houses are red, and bay cyan?”
“My crayon box have no green,
A blue mountain, I have seen!
Purple house, orange grass
Fishes be purple, and bass be pink”
The kids started mocking the fool,
For all they were taught are rules.
As roses are bright red
As clouds are white, as breads are brown.
They all looked at their drawings,
and their crayons box, checking
If they have all their tints
So that to him, they aren’t kin.
People are full of judgement
To those who are too different.
Demean, discriminate, disgrace.
Until the end of that day
To home they were on their way.
Remember, the essence
Of this color lesson he will.
- Minh Le
As a child I always found wonder
In the mighty mordant bird’s thunder,
The scaly dragon’s flamboyant fire
And the slim figure that appears when the time is dire.
Creatures of fantasy,
While I knew of their farce
Fueled my vivacious phantasy
So like fish in the sea, they were never sparse.
But as the years went by
My cesspool of wonder began to die.
Dragons ceased to fly over the skies
While at night, I could no longer hear the banshee’s cries.
Where did my imagination run off to?
My mind, which was to my creativity, its captain
Bit off more than it could chew.
But when I have time
And my mind’s in its prime
I can still see the faint image of a dragon,
Travelling back to its den of rock and bracken.
- Kamille Roese
The Great Divide
Every four years, when the time is near
Politics’s bloody hands appear
To divide the country once more
Until bipartisanship becomes a bore.
But this year,
Our election has left us with a smear.
This country, once united
Is now left divided.
Republicans and Democrats are now at war
Over things as trivial as a grocery store.
The big game, a family barbeque
Now painted in red and blue.
But this mess which was so uninvited
Will soon, if we follow this guidance, be righted.
As we could once see
It is healthy to disagree
But if we try to curb opposing views
In the end, everyone will lose.
So put your arrogance back on the shelf
And with the knowledge of others, enlighten yourself.
Yes, create your own opinions,
But don’t try to trap others with your mental dominion.
- Kamille Roese