By Benjamin Firsick
Published February 3, 2016
The icy November breeze Chilled my neck, as muggy Gray clouds hid the brilliant sun. Laying my rake down, giving it a rest From clawing the leaves into a pile, When the desperate cries of...
By Gabriel Wainio-Theberge
Published February 3, 2016
Listen! Is that the calling of the hounds, The hounds returning? What wavering desolate horn is this that sounds, So much like the wild hunt's baying? A trembling weary choir of voices From the chilly...
By Gabriel Wainio-Theberge
Published February 3, 2016
We see autumn As a blaze Of red leaves, falling leaf-shaped embers From the branch-lined sky, A blaze Of squirrels rushing, Geese hurrying, of motion, A blaze Of jack-o-lanterns. But around the jack-o-lanterns falls the...
By Cora W. Bucher
Published February 3, 2016
Does anything exist at this hour, when my footsteps crash, and my breathing screams? When every slight movement I make, Feels like a leap? When I'm all alone, my house is quiet. Outside the streetlights...
By Laine Bruzek
Published February 3, 2016
I lie on the grass, My back on the soft earth, Wind quietly whistling Through the tall oak behind me I watch the sky And as the clock spins The sky does also, The clouds...
By Rhiannon Grodnik
Published February 2, 2016
I watch the sun melting like butter into the calm swirl of waves and foam It glides down, a flying ballerina In the far end of my vision, I can see shimmering stars glistening: City...
By Nicholas Bonavolonta
Published February 2, 2016
A tree Waiting Standing high, drinking water Through its mighty roots Near a river Shimmering blue As smooth as glass It watches the leaves fall And quickly swept away by the river Swept far, far...
By Rhiannon Grodnik
Published February 2, 2016
I watch the sun melting like butter into the calm swirl of waves and foam It glides down, a flying ballerina In the far end of my vision, I can see shimmering stars glistening: City...
By Alice Provost Simmons
Published February 1, 2016
Blizzard white snow twirling dancing like another kind of ballerina. I see a girl she is white— seeing something I can't see— a white hawk circling
By Nina Wilson
Published February 1, 2016
In the morning I wake up At six-fifteen Much too early Hair is combed Teeth are brushed Breakfast is had One day being like another But On my way to the bus stop A redwing...
