Dancing to Frank Sinatra

By Kate Parisi

Across the room his eyes are shining

blue as an endless see of

wishing and dreaming and hoping

that maybe one day he'll grow up

and be what he thinks he should be,

to be what his parents want,

to love how he’s supposed to love

as told by everyone else.

He wants to be an engineer--

he told me once--

but the way he said it

wasn't hopeful and dreaming

it was a hopeless dream;

a bucket list wish.

But I thought bucket lists

were supposed to be made for people

who needed something to look forward to.

Here I am thinking he has that,

here I am thinking that every person

has something to look forward to.

Here I am, wrong again.

I catch his eye from his corner seat

slouched back in a weighted way

as if the world he carries on his shoulders

is more like Jupiter than Earth.

But when our eyes meet

he looks at me like he’s just remembered

the nights we had where

talking about our futures

didn't seem like a chore, but rather

a place we could go together

where gravity wasn't gravity

and hopes were reality.

We were astronauts and cowboys,

we were firefighters and doctors and singers

and lovers and livers and we lived

in our time, our infinity, as if it was our now.

As if we could wake up tomorrow and live

how we said we could live.

It was always more fun that way.

He looks at me now like he did the first time,

the gleam in his eyes a mix of surprise

and curiosity. Of hope.

He rises from his seat and moves,

the weight of the world on his shoulders

replaced by a smattering of stardust.

His hands on mine,

holding and breathing and caring.

We danced until the sun rose again.

Gently Overcast by Jaclyn Lowe

GENTLY OVERCAST

T w o  p e o p l e  w a l k i n g  t o  t h e  s t o r e  t a l k i n g  a b o u t

T h e  b i l l s  a n d  w h a t  t h e  w e a t h e r  i s  l i k e .

C l o u d s  i n  t h e  s k y.  F e e t  h i t t i  n g  p a v e m e n t. W a l  k i n g

S t i l l  t o  t h e  s a m e  p l a c e .  P a s t  t h e  o l d  m o t e l

T h a t  w a s  b u r n t  d o w n  a  f e w  m o n t h s  b a c k .  H e a d i n g  t o  t h e

S a m e  s t o r e  e v e r y d a y  w h e r e  t h e y  s e l l  t h e  s a m e

T h i n g s .  S h e  r e m e m b e r s  t h e  b e g i n n i n g  w h e n  t h e y  f  i r s t  m e t  

T h e n   l o o k s  a t  h i m  a n d  f r o w n s  b e c a u s e  t h i s  i s

A l l  s h e  w i l l  e v e r  h a v e .  H e  l o o k s  a t  h e r  a n d  d o e s  n o t h i n g

B e c a u s e  h e  d o e s  n o t  w a n t  h e r  t o  k n o w

T h a t  e v e r y d a y  h e  w a n t s  l i g h t  a  m a t ch  a n d  l e t  t h e  

F l a m e s  c a r e s s  h i m  .  H e  c a n  r e m e m b e r  t h e  f i r s t  t i m e

T h a t  i t  h a p p e n d. S h e  w a s  a n g r y  a n d  h e  w a s  

S c a r e d,  b u t  s h e  d i d  i t  a n y w a y s.  T h e  b r u i s e

L o o k e d  l i k e  a  s t or m  c l o u d  e n c i r c l i n g  h i s  l e f t

E y e.  H e  t o l d  e v e r y o n e  i t  w a s  n o t h i n g  b u t  i t

W a s  e v e r y t h i n g.  H e  l o v e d  h e r  o n c e,  a  l o n g  t i m e  a g o  s o

H e  w e n t  f a r  a w a y  a n d  t o o k  h i s  m a t c h b o x  w i t h  h i m.

---

Difference and Distance

By Chloe Kenyon

deserts and the east coast

what's the difference?

about 3,000 miles, no

it's more like 4,000

coast to coast?

almost but not quite.

the desert is not on the coast

there's one difference

about two hours

change in time

it's 7:00 on the coast

it's 5:00 in the desert

there's two differences for you

how's the weather treating you?

oh it's in the mid 70's,

must be nice to be warm

it's cold on the coast

freezing on the coast

try the low 30's here

there's three differences for you

how about the trees?

deserts don't have trees,

deserts have cactus

deserts have shrubs

and then theres the coast

the coast has trees

pine trees,

oak trees,

growing along the waters edge

there's four differences for you

deserts and the coast have colors

the desert is brown

dry and brown

the coast is green

green with trees and the ocean

there's five differences for you

another thing, the ground

deseret ground

it's dry and cracked

coastal soil

it's wet and rocky

there's six differences for you

the surrounding space

in the desert it's miles of open

plateau to plateau

by the coast theres rocks and trees

until the coast meets the ocean

there's seven differences for you

the people

there's people in the desert

there's people on the coast

so similar

but so different at the same time.

now theres eight differences

eight differences

eight months

almost 4,000 miles

four time zones

about 18 states

and a world of missing you

that's what stands,

between the desert and the coast

between you and I

Deity by Kate Parisi

Is he here with me now, do you suppose?

I catch glimpses of him in the most crowded of dreams.

Have you let him come home to visit?

It’s probably just my silly imagination.

Or was that his laugh I heard to my right?

No.

It was just the whisper of breeze

dancing through the drapes.

Surely.

I suppose it wasn’t his smile I saw in the crowd the other day;

the brilliant white sun dancing off his toothy grin

creating a beautiful prism of our life together.

But how could it not have been?

Is it possible that he never even left?

I had hoped that he wouldn’t,

It’s just that the world seems remarkably colder since.

Please.

Just tell me if he’s still here.

I almost know the answer,

but I need to know for sure.

Is this all for real, God,

or just my mind’s deranged cure?

Justice by Matthew Ciaramitaro

Heavy is the soul of the man with the gavel.

Heavy is the weight of the sins he’s committed.

He would himself to hell just to feel whole.

And justly so for what he’s permitted.

Rocking back and forth in cell,

A man looks to escape from hell.

Innocent he is (in most ways),

but burning he has been for days.

Oh so heavy his shackles are

And so much regret he feels.

Blackened not is his heart.

At the altar he readily kneels.

His sentence was death

For resisting arrest,

From an officer of the law

That eagerly broke his jaw.

But the humility of the other.

To endure so much in duty to his city.

Each day he feels he locked up his brother

Then he goes home, and eats away his pity.

The innocent starves, awaiting the end.

He had so much to live for and so much to defend.

He has to die for fighting back

Against a racist cop that saw he was black.

The judge regrets greatly,

Those sent to death row.

Those men that were white and wealthy,

And the officers in prison that he knows.

The man looks at the rope.

The judge smiles with hope.

He got that guilty dope,

He chuckles a bit as he watches the man choke.

Kidnapped by Matthew Ciaramitaro

My captors have been quite kind to me,

Much more than their predecessors.

The first ones found me on the streets,

Coming in a roaring earthquake, at which I was the epicenter.

Trapped in a cage I then looked for escape.

I tried to squeeze through the bars to no avail.

They returned seeming strangely elate,

And punctured me with a glaring needle.

After some time I observed my surroundings.

Hidden in the room were hundreds of others,

Imprisoned with no real grounding.

They must keep our screams muffled.

They opened our cells to give us food scraps,

When they came to me I refused to be trapped.

My escape was easily foiled, but patient I must be.

There is always a route, and always a way,

To regain one’s liberty.

Nothing can keep me from being free.

They moved me one day, so I cut them with my nails.

This new room was filled with what i can only describe as slave buyers.

If I went with them it would be much harder to fail

In my quest for freedom, so my hopes were raised higher.

“Notice me, buy me, I’m the most valuable asset here.”

I showed my strengths and attracted a single slaver.

My heart beat fast, my moment was near.

“Soon I will escape and I’ll finally be safer.”

The slaver tossed me in a coffin, and drove me to his home.

He began calling me some name in his strange language.

Yet, he fed me well and allowed me to roam

And to the streets I lost my languish.

If I escape they will come for me again,

I won’t be so lucky, and I’ll die in a cage.

Now I’m in a prison, but can leave any time.

I pretend to love my masters, and they leave me alone.

My work is quite easy, I must simply chime

A song, or entertain them with everything I know.

Why should I leave, it’s safer at present.

I can’t leave, it might be worse outside.

My age as I count it is seven,

As the day I was taken, was the day I died.

My identity is young, but my body old.

As I’ve grown frailer my captors have barely grown.

I can no longer overpower them, despite what I’ve told.

My life is wasted simply sitting in their home.

Death. The truest freedom I could ever have.

It ends their happiness. Revenge through loss of love.

A Poem by Cindy Velasquez

Dark and gloomy, foggy and wet,
No rise of sunshine, til the next day…

No laughing children, no happy people, no Smiling faces,
Til the next day…..

Dark and cold, wet and damp.
Am I sleeping ?
Why can’t I move? Why can’t I see anything!?
Isn’t there anybody to help me?!..........

hehehehehe…...

How do you feel? Do you feel sick ? Are you tired ?
Are you angry or are you sad ?
Do you want to be alone or do you want me to stay ?
Do you feel hurt inside ?
Do you want to talk about it ?
Or do you want to stay quiet, forever ?

Who are you?!
Who am I?
I'm…...you………

hahahahahaha!!!
huh?

In the night, lay the princess,
Having a peaceful dream,
Sleeping in her chamber, til the next day.