The Act of Creation

 

Lance Allen

 

If I were to build the perfect human

It must be, first and foremost, ugly,

Horrendous would be best;

For beauty corrupts the soul

With vanity and pride.

Actually, is skin really necessary?

Many are judged by its color

And all it really does is become burned

Beneath the sun.

Muscles, for what?

It doesn’t need them.

All they do is tear and deteriorate

And cramp and ache and throb

While giving others the authority

To suppress their weaker brethren.

Bones, now those are completely useless.

Bones can break and snap easily,

And they don’t decompose so well

Rotting in their graves.

Organs? Bah!

With all the viruses and cancers today

They might as well be gone.

Brains are especially dangerous;

They fuel all the world’s evil,

The seat of unhappiness, fear, and anger.

In fact, that leaves nothing at all.

Good.

This is how it’s supposed to be.

 

 

The Swing

 

Alyssa Gnadinger

 

Was it revenge?

My feet had been pressed to the wood,

Bearing down with childish indifference

To its age—and subsequent weakness.

The old wooden board was justified to send me

Sliding to the ground

After I’d trampled its dignity

With my muddied feet.

 

Maybe it was fear; maybe that’s why I’d trembled

After pressing my rope-blistered hands

To my lips

And finding my fingers wet with blood.

Or why my vision and thoughts had gone dark

While standing

And gazing out at the bare dirt where

I’d tasted the vengeance of its ancient, rope-secured seat.

In that moment the swing had been alive

And protested—finally—its numerous abuses.

 

 

 

The Heart of a City

 

Carrie Wohlschlegel

 

I can almost hear the rain

Patter on the pavement,

Blending into the sound of high-fashion shoes

That click away to some destination of utmost importance.

 

I can almost see the tall, red bus

Break, release, and open its doors,

Drowning out the many conversations

Conducted in a more proper tongue.

 

I can almost feel the cool air

Rush past my face

As I hurry to class, a five minute trek,

Causing my feet to ache from their excessive use.

 

I can almost see the sunset over the river,

Changing day to dusk.

Though the lighting is dimmed,

The city is anything but.        

 

These sounds and sights form a constant,

Imperfect rhythm—the heartbeat of London.

They say home is where the heart is,

And though in my eager mind

This established city is not yet fully formed,

I can almost hear it, almost see and feel it,

And I know my heart is reaching out

For this new home I’m about to go to,

Whose pulse grows a little louder,

A little stronger, in my own heart every day.

 

 

 

Wildcat Rd.

 

Jackie Woolums

 

Set apart from the world

On this little gravel road

I’m hidden away

By dancing leaves

On swaying trees.

The sun shifts

Shade lifts and falls,

And I am alone but free.

 

The wind blows

Tousling my hair.

And days are spent

Without care.

Country roads

Carry me along,

The beaten path

I travel alone.

 

When I go back

To where I’ve been

I will think of the road

And soon visit again.

Gravel roads, they call out to me—

I will always long to be

Beneath the trees

Feeling that shady breeze.

 

 

  

House In Midway

 

Jackie Woolums

 

I see you often in my dreams

And try to remember your warmth.

Sometimes I think I hear you calling me,

But this old house echoes that I am alone.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply;

I smell your favorite gum on my breath.

All at once you seem to be here,

And I hear your old piano sing.

The song is familiar, and I hear your voice,

“Amazing grace how sweet the sound.”

If only it had been enough to save a wretch like me.

The old house again falls empty and silent.

As quickly as you came, you left.

So I sit alone on this old piano bench

In the doorway of your old house

And reminisce.