Young Writers Society

Thanks so much!

Prompt:

the following statements set the scenery for your poem. extrapolate.

It's mid-morning.
There's light cloud in the sky.
You're high up in a mountain.
There's a lonely feel to the place.

pinnacle - Number Sixty

i tread the mountains in mid-morning,
still in the middle of mourning the
precious hours of sleep i lost.
there are people who trapise these crags
right beside me, yet there is no talking,
only heavy breathing and quiet grunts.
i decide to let these legs meander
from the group, for then it is just me.
i've made a lot of mistakes, but this
was not one of them. i whispered
to nature, and nature whispered
back, the cold wind reddening
my ears. everywhere i took
a step seemed to lead to
a precipice or cliff, yet
i did not feel my life
in jeopardy like
some might.
i searched for
a plateau, on which
i would address
my problems to
as i draw out
a checkered picnic blanket.
together, we feast on lunch,
nature, on the soft clouds
and i, on raspberries i picked
just the other day.

dishwater - Number Sixty-one


i wash the dishes in early morning,
sunshine gleaming through the smudged windows,
glass delicate as i and as firm as you were.
potted plants lined up at the windowsill,
each getting their fair share of sunshine;
i thought this must have been a dream.
fickle as you were, you sat at the table
and read me poetry from a book you borrowed
from your mother. i didn't like it much, but
i loved your voice, so i tolerated it.
when i was done, i let the dishwater
out of the drain, left with wrinkled fingers
and thoughts to ponder on. quietly,
you set the book to the side
and dried my hands off;
some things are too good
to be true is a saying
i once believed, but then
i met you.

Jasper - Number Sixty-two


gems depraved, poison
in their blood. i wanted to
take a moment to think of just
flexibility, love, and trust,
but i can't when these thoughts
are trapped inside my head--
i was trapped inside a mirror
for years and only now someone's
noticed me? i can't bare to
look at the sea. not after that,
not after her; Jasper, i try her name
on my lips but i get caught in an ellipse--
i thought you were stronger than that.
i thought maybe you could learn
the diamonds were poisoned, a vial
of cyanide trickled into their wine.
i suppose i thought wrong; is it odd
to say that i'm roommates with the person
that killed the only one i fused with?

vertigo - Number Sixty-three


left in vertigo,
i steady myself
on an oak tree.
i wanted to spin
like the earth, to
see how it felt
forever hurdling
counter-clockwise,
head pointing
towards Polaris.
it isn't easy
being the earth,
paying homage
to all living creatures.

fairisle sweater - Number Sixty-four


you still wear the mourning
on your sleeve, like a fairisle
sweater in april. i think of how
it embodies your grief, only
scraps and tatters and stains
left over your shoulders.

she stitched fireflies into
the night sky you wear
over your torso. you still
wear the night on your sleeve
like a fairisle sweater in april.

isn't it time to move on
from this aching? it's been
three months, i'll put it in a
cardboard box with her pictures
and store it in the attic if it
helps you move on.

echo - Number Sixty-five


i can hear her echo
in old home videos
that i watch on the
television when no one
else is home. i can
see her dancing
in the photographs
that hang on the wall
there in her memory.

in her memory because
we left her behind in january
wanting to begin anew.
i can see her roaming
the halls at night, avoiding
every floorboard that has

been notorious for creaking
almost as if she doesn't want
me to hear her. i can feel her
in the room when no one else
is around, a presence that
i'm not even sure is there.
she is not dead, but she
is dead to me.

I love the quiet grief that has spread itself comfortably throughout your latest three poems. I really do love the earth, one, too, so don't give up on it!

Thank you! And I don't think I will. :p

Prompt: 'stone hearts, bleeding red' gifted by @ScarlettFire in a jam!

stone hearts - Number Sixty-six

stone hearts, bleeding red.
the scent of strawberries in
the amorous air.

@Autumns @ScarlettFire @Apricity from the jam.

fluent in//broken hearts//breaking hearts - Number Sixty-seven

i am fluent in broken hearts, in misery,
almost as if it were my mother tongue.
there is a city on my bedside counter,
of bowls and plates and of silverware,
a civilization built over the past week.
is it depressing, how much time i spend
watching infomericials on the tv? brain
starting to concave, almost like a valley.

i search and search in the ball pit for
my childhood, this is where i lost it.
it is slithering away, shrieking like
a child who cannot contain themselves.

there is a chasm between me and
the person withering in the other room.
mother, must your hands deflower? i ask,
coming into the living room where i know
soon i'll have to change the name, time
slipping through these nimble fingers.
i massage her aching bones, at least
i can purge her pain, if only for a moment.

i am fluent in breaking hearts, even if
i intend to make amendments. too bad
Rosetta Stone doesn't offer that language.

wine in antarctica - Sixty-eight



I'll be drinking wine in
Antarctica, regardless
of where you are, frost
covering the top of the
glass, I set it down in
the perpetual snow.
i lay, belly to the earth,
sliding around on the ice,
headfirst into everything.
if i die out here in the
bitter cold, no one else
would have to watch me go,
the ice my floor, my
hospital bed, my coffin.
if i could die with a penguin
throatily quacking in my ear,
that would be enough.

Prompt:

Write a poem about the end of something.

The End - Number Sixty-nine


This is the end.
I gasp and gasp
for air, body vulnerable
to the crimson sky.
With a sideways glance,
I look over at the chains
on these wrists, on these
scarred ankles. The clouds
are not idle, for they run rampant
in this place that I have
found myself in. Left alone
with these thoughts,
the most brutal torment.
And yet, this is the beginning.

Prompt: Wrote this off a song I was listening to by the same name, and here's what I came up with.

chronic sunshine - Number Seventy

there is chronic sunshine
until the sun decides to detonate
like a hand grenade. how funny,
the entity that single-handedly
keeps the frost from covering
our skin is also the entity
that could sear the same skin off.
chronic sunshine until
i pull the blankets over
this head filled of cotton,
yet it still shines through.
chronic sunshine, a condition
that we all have to live with
down here in california.

showerhead - Number Seventy-one

i let the water run cold.
i let my hair out the ponytail
that it is normally bound with.

in the shower, i think of how
two heads are better than one,
with mine pressed against the
rusty showerhead, ideas slipping
through these slender fingers
and into the drain; a baby tsunami
spiraling and spiraling and spiraling
and i am left dizzy, almost nauseous.

i gaze upon a distorted reflection
on the grimy walls of the shower,
shocked to see two eyes staring
back at me, my shower thoughts.