Thursday, April 19, 2012

Clockwork Walls -- Jennifer Anderson

Clockwork compass
Spirals in the wall
Twisting, turning, firing,
Shapes, forms, faces,
Points you home
And to your death
Swiftly just
And justly deft.
Clockwork faces
Watching from the wall
Sneering, jeering, grinning
Turn on turn
Laugh and tell
Or break the spell
And blur the lines
Between the worlds.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Sway-- Kathryn Sullivan

Untitled-- Cady Gebhart

      The water drop slowly slid its way down the side of the clear, plastic cup. Separated by a layer of corn based polymer, it passed by glistening cubes of ice and slices of fresh lemon intermingling with small chunks of ginger.
  “I don’t know,” I said. “Its.... weird, it just... kinda happens...”
  Curiosity blazes across from me. A warm, probing field of energy, reaching across to me. I shy away. Not really comfortable with the invisible pressure. I back off, moving my energy deeper into my body. 
  “So you can’t control it?”
“Not yet, I’m still practicing. Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s harder. But it takes a lot of concentration”.
We stare a the table. At the intricate mosaic of shell and glass fragments. There’s a coffee stain that has soaked into the plaster, leaving a mismatched circle among the cracks. 
A small group of friends walks by talking in loud voices. The pressure from across the table vanishes and I can breath again. My comrade is distracted. In that time I am able to sequester my energy back into my self as I prepare for the coming torrent of questions. 
“How long have you been able to do this?”.
         “Since my father died”.
“So do you feel it, or see it? Or is it more like a sixth sense kind of thing?”
         “Uhhh... mainly I sense it, but sometimes, depending on the person, I can feel it”.
“And the colors... so do different people have different colors? And are the colors like, our energies, or what?”
“ Yeah, the colors I feel are individual energies, generated by each person. But-”.
“So you can actually tell peoples colors?!”
         “.... uhhh, yea-”.
“What’s my color?”
          I stare across the cafĂ© table at my companion. But I don’t just stare, I feel. I feel the bounding curiosity, and a slight longing for something unknown, and I feel a color. Unlike some people who are hard to read, my friend is a distinct, light - 
         “Yellow,” I say. “Kinda like a peach, only with a slightly lighter tone”.  
         “Woah...”
          I shrug my shoulders, not really sure of what to say. It’s strange. Some people would say its a type of hypersensitivity, some would say it’s some ridiculous crap. I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t really believe it myself. Whatever it is, it’s an old feeling that’s completely new to me and has become my norm. 
I sit there contemplating the perspiring beverage in front of me. As I clear my mind and expand my energy, I begin to feel the multitudes of brightly shining bubbles pulsating, bobbing and swirling around the plaza. They are my fellow park patrons. There are different shapes and sizes, brightnesses and tones, yet all have the distinct feel of life. Electric pulses and currents running throughout each individual, generating small waves of energy that build and build until they form a blanket around the body. 
           The group of friends have settled themselves behind us in some of the elegant benches that adorn the park. Their voices carry the vibrant onda that resonates throughout this city. Closing my eyes, I probe behind me until I reach the dazzling array of turquoises, oranges and tangerines, coupled with the shimmering yellow light you see when the sun glances off the bay. 
I immerse myself in their joy. Feeling as the positive energy flows though them and into me. And I look up past the old plaster buildings and I smile. 

Thursday, January 19, 2012

My Awkward Inner Child- Lauren Glover

The sun shone affably on Boulder Country Day School as the fumes of well preserved fetal pigs wafted heavily on the dainty breeze. My eighth grade class was spread outside on the grass to avoid stinking up the building, our fetal pigs splayed out on plastic trays. My lab partner, Jason, and I wore latex gloves to protect our hands from the chemicals and from taking on the same stench as the flesh we were carefully dividing and identifying. Still, the odor stalked the members of the class through the entirety of the day, despite our attempts to defend ourselves against it.

Jason and I had not chosen each other as partners, rather we had been leftovers from our determined efforts as separate genders to keep the groups of male and female strictly segregated. Secretly, I had been pleased to be partnered with the lanky, red-haired boy. Our task that week was to simply identify the anatomy of the pig, which, at least internally, proved to be similar to that of humans. I had been relieved to learn that we were not required to write anything down for the exercise; even in those days I avoided every iota of possible extra work. For this particular project my tomboy persona emerged and I was delighted to be carving open the pig, although I restrained my glee due to Jason’s presence.

Jason and I were both reserved with our actions, overly polite and self-aware. We had been in school together for five years, yet puberty had moved us from carefree children to nervous beings who weren’t quite sure how to handle ourselves, especially around each other. Jason turned the page of our lab booklet and his face went scarlet. The top of the next page exclaimed in ominous, bold lettering “Determining the Sex of Your Pig”.

After a few “um”s and “err”s, we picked up our scalpels and found what proved our pig to be male. By that time, my cheeks too had changed to a nice shade of strawberry. Jason poked at some stuff and mumbled “Well, I guess that’s it…” We hastily turned the page, ignoring the rest of the instructions under the obtrusive heading and proceeded to awkwardly prod and name other parts of the pig.

I would like to think that if put in the same situation, I would act with more maturity and composure the second time around. I would like to think that I have grown to be above squirming at something so insignificant. In reality, who knows? Maybe I would only react in exactly the same way. I like to think I grow and change. And I do. But no matter what, there will always still be within me that nervous, embarrassed child that I grew from.

My Dear Friend: the Magical Safari Guide- By Julius M. Kanore

He appears, an apparition conjured by unseen powers.
His words come out of nowhere, striking awkward notes,
leaving an inharmonious taste.
His laugh, discordant, disconcerting: a sequel to his song of conversation.

His form like that of a slender gazelle on the savannah.
He runs with graceful gallops,
with a wild mane of hair grazing upon the sapphire sky.

His kind nature: an angel only seeing the silver linings of clouds.
He remains perpetually pleasant; no worldly entity wields the weapons to ignite his fu
ry. His angelic feathers never ruffle.
He plays the guardian, lending an unhelpful, helping hand.
Mere mortals encounter a supernatural being riddled by antithesis.
They discover a tone-deaf angel,
fallen on the African grasslands in animal form.