Young Writers Society

Sunday Sonnet 1: 04/07

What say we on the seven hour drive?
What probing questions probe the right amount?
What game of leading prompts must I contrive
for you a longer story to recount?

Wisconsin's gut makes nothing-scenery,
a formless swathe of corn-cows-cows-corn-town.
Naught here begets a pointing "look there, see!"
except the OG Culver's of renown.

Please tell me of your newest friends at work.
Please tell me of the house you plan to buy.
Please tell me of your boss's strangest quirk
as greyish grazing pastures pass us by.

I only ask to fill the silent car.
You will not sing, which I prefer by far.

Eclipse Poem Take 1:

Cosmic coincidence tied my mother and father.
They met at a party where she translated jokes for him,
and he took her to lunch again, and again, and again,
the moon eating his heart each time.

Cosmic planning tied my father and mother.
They met at a party where she translated jokes for him,
and he fell, hard, into the sunglass-dark, so hard
he calculated a trajectory to meet her again.

Thank goodness they are not the sun and moon.
When their brief kiss ends and the sun reveals its dazzling diamond ring,
the moon must bid farewell until their next meeting.
My mom can stay (and apply for citizenship).

Wednesday Haiku 04/10

Persevere, dear moon
and devour the brilliant sun
to steal his spotlight

Sunday Sonnet 2: 04/14

The rolling glacial foothills on repeat
are brown and beige and boring-er than corn.
No crops, nor cows, nor combines do adorn
the hilltops, which then turn so indiscrete
I need a bubble tea–one that’s full sweet–
to keep my waking consciousness airborne.
But even then–my drive began this morn-
-ing. Now my butt is solid in my seat.

And oh, you thought this poem had a twist?
A change to fit the format’s stanza break?
I’m tired! And I think I bruised my wrist
moving my boxes in without assist-
-ance, for my movers cannot take
my stuff until this Friday, they insist.

Wednesday Haiku: 04/17

Clinging humidity
spikes like static on the skin,
calling down the storm

Sunday Sonnet 03: 04/21

The sleeping bag felt nicer on my bed
than on the floor so hard upon my bones
without e’en stars to twinkle overhead.

I have one chair: the bathroom’s porcelain throne.
At least upon it is there comfort more
than on the floor so hard upon my bones.

As yet all local restaurants I abhor.
I know, upon the chains I can’t live, but
at least upon them is there comfort more.

Perhaps to later pain prevent I’ll shut
myself inside and never my wings spread.
I know, upon the chains I can’t live, but

the sleeping bag felt nicer on my bed.
I wish I was in Illinois instead.

Wednesday Haiku 04: 4/24

The blue-sky siren
seduces me outside, sings:
"Kill your computer."