Sep 16, 2014

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Student Literature

Salvage

By Kristel Kiiroja
December 3, 2010

Deep deep I delve,
navigating the net of neurons
and diving into the ocean
of cells containing my memories.
My childhood bobs and bursts
in the primordial ooze,
drowning and dying in the murky sea,
like painted bouys melting,
and I reach for them,
those gasping fragments,
back to the shore,
piecing and assembling myself back together

(:commentbox:)

manjit — 16 August 2011, 14:34

Beautiful piece of literature.

Linx — 27 June 2011, 20:23

Whoever wrote this, you know how to make a good acrtile.


The Teacher and His Student

By Peter Rice
December 2, 2010

If only you knew
Why I am here,
You could see through this musketeer.
I pray that you will listen
To the song that I sing,
Because all glistening pretenders eventually receive the bee’s sting.
You are a mythical creature
And I know your game plan,
Because I am the teacher man.

You think you know me,
And all of who I am,
But I know you’re just a creature called Sam.
Trapped in a cave,
You are enslaved,
And I am just to behave.
If only you knew
Why I am here,
You wouldn’t misconstrue my unwanted career.

I am not an omnipotent sightseer,
This is true,
But why should I listen to you?

(:commentbox:)


Top Hats and Roses

By James Browning
December 2, 2010

I
I am dressed in clothing many would die for
or die in:
My vestments of satin, my buttons of pearl,
My top hat of shining silk.

The ancient square bustling, the holidays near,
Crowds assemble by shop windows,
Congregating everywhere, save a desolate corner,
One
Overlooked, avoided, barren.

Deathly cold.

Here a tiny girl stands, her hand outstretched,
Clasping blood-red petals
And the thorns she has to bear.
A flower seller.

Why won’t you let your eyes
Wander toward her tender visage?
Does she frighten you?
An innocent girl who but offers delicate petals.

Her eyes wrought with want,
Glassy and immovable,
She wanders on the fringe of life,
Isolated, unreachable.

The destiny of an innocent girl
Strewn about unforgiving streets.
Eating only when the people feel she is worthy.
Her blossoms but a penny, yet no one stops for her.

Something is changing, the feeling issuing forth from my soul;
Yet I know not what it may be.
I only know this girl fascinates me,
But I am not poor like she.

I am changing—
Feeling vulnerable, naked, haunted.
The reason evades me.
I pause; for something I am waiting…

II
Driven into the stone crevices
Of the portal of nothingness,
People seem not to notice me.
I know not why I’ve been forgotten.
I feel isolated, inhuman.

My hands are frozen now.
I examine them:
Two swollen phoenixes,
Each a crimson color.

I feel the pain, the thorns.
I see the blood-red color you can buy for a penny.
Standing on this desolate corner,
I hold a flower basket.

I am passed by those
With vestments of satin and buttons of pearl.
I seem to be noticed only by a man
With a top hat of shining silk.

(:commentbox:)


Balancing a Paper World

By Derek Stevens
December 2, 2010

Jim built paper bag towers
of academic institutions,
corporations and city halls
on his dining room table.

“The World”
was scripted black on thick
cardboard that supported
everything.

Jim’s hands were filled
with chatty scraps-
painted green and preserved
to forest into city squares.

His brother, Dillon, chewed
in his high chair, a map
of China was tucked between his fingers,
adhered with saliva.

Jim sprinkled
the scraps on the town,
civil sedatives, hundredfold a hand.
Dillon laughed
and grabbed and clung
to Europe
like it was his sister’s onyx earring.

It was then that Jim
noticed the circles
encroaching on the squares –
a tedious swordplay
of disingenuous jabs
agitated
by a slight fan breeze.

“More sedatives,” Jim thought
and headed to the kitchen.

On his returned,
the dislocated high chair
foretold-
Dillon, China dribble
adhered to his mouth,
had made his way to the table to unground
the fragile foundation
that was meant
only for preservation.

(:commentbox:)


Spiraling Down

By Caroline Galeotafiore
December 1, 2010

All around, all around,
There are visions of everything spiraling down.
My lungs embrace the autumn air,
But the trees are stripped, brown, and bare
Because the leaves are falling fast
With not even the smallest sound,
As they persist on their paths,
Spiraling down, spiraling down.
My smooth skin is coolly cleansed
As the accumulating clouds continue to cry,
And nothing in sight is spared or saved;
Nothing that surrounds me remains dry.
Each and every wee wet raindrop
Meets and massages the gravelly ground,
Seemingly never being able to stop
Spiraling down, spiraling down.
My mind shelters my monsoon of thoughts
That relentlessly race around,
Like tears streaming down a mourner’s face
Who has ultimately found
That every time the waters raise you up high,
You’ll eventually drown,
For we all, under the same great sky,
Are spiraling down, spiraling down,
But no matter how much you’re pushed
To the back of the longest line,
Just stand your ground and wait around
As if there are endless amounts of time
Because it’s at those moments in which you feel
That enough is finally enough
That you realize you’ve always been capable of
Spiraling up, spiraling up.
(:commentbox:)

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