Young Writers Society

I like the one you've written about broken memories! I think it perfectly portrays that type of thing and it's a strong piece to go off of. Keep up the good writing. <3

The Tutor


I
am ...
a guide,
an empty
__shoe box you can stuff
__with lost souls, luggage bags, and soil
a walking stick who's been here before and caught you
but a thought when you leave, just the whisper when you write problems and know ________________________________________the right answers

This is my life, your guess-and-check, a question forever answered as you take my knowledge, boil it down, and nibble the crumbs.

But as you work on Math, or English, I wait beside you in a mystery adventure. I explore the Atlantic Trench you learn about, see the vampiric fish beneath the waves schooling.

I am a guide for your knowledge; an empty coffin you can use for all your knick knacks, your body, your clothes, your jewelry, and whatever flowers they provide; a walking stick who, if you study, you will know that the red rocks are mean, for I am marred by their angry fire high on my wood. Let me be a loud whisper in your mind's ear as you traverse the mountain alone.

Flamingo

Soundbar poppers
varying their tone
totally oblivious to
the way they scatter
our chords together
like an EVP recording
glowing pink below
the noise of walking feet
and raising up to touch
the wild blue of the sea.

The Regal Beast

You are soft as a plush cat on your face
with a ruffle like a lion's mane decorating
your shoulders and trailing down your spine
Shoulder pads of a recent Dictator curling up
from the shoulder blades protruding like a panthers

but you're a sweetie. You
laze away days at mens feet*
licking toes and puppy-dog-eyeing food
like there's nothing better in the world.

You trade me for my steak with your bone
and stare in miffed confusion when
I don't take you up on it.
Your nose is a hammer
and your legs are those of kangaroos
and worse of all, I miss you.

Baby Pictures

People assume that just because
I'm female, I will enjoy looking at pictures of children
under the age of 3, that somehow I'll oo and aw at them
when all they make me want to do is cringe.

Children aren't cute to me, and I'm never going to change that,
it is what it is, and other people don't accept that.
The other day I had a woman show me a picture of
her child and I had to lie about thinking it was cute,

when other people would beg for more.
It's not my thing, but to say that would be
to purger myself, to admit I am not like the rest,
to outcast me from their group, and I don't want to do that.
It's not in me to think that
little pink puddles of stacked playdough
are cute. They look like puke machines
covered in sticky goo with eyes too big,
and noses too small. How does it breathe?!
It's not for me.

Moments Gone

you stood before me young, an eagerly learning journalist
patient with your tone, just the eagerly learning journalist

Hi there, I was wondering if I could interview you for a piece
and away you'd go tapping at the keys, a leisurely learning journalist

She didn't show up this week, despite saying she would be here.
Forget it, I like her, Her work will show up. She's a greenly learning journalist

Three for the price of one we cried together, laughed together, sang
and you would waltz on by, a speedily learning journalist

the wind whipped through your hair like a hurricane
but I had no reason to fear, you were a seaworthy learning journalist.

blinking became a sin, don't miss it, wait for it, let it in,
somehow you were grown and spreading fast, a sneakily learning journalist

let's celebrate today, the past, and those days yet to come,
I don't want them to go away, but you're an arrivederci learning journalist.

The spring lie, it's warm
birds arguing over trees;
hypnotized parents

Unused Farm Field

Trees whisper in the wind
which brushes their hair of leaves
gently drifting by, gently drifting,
Grass green as actor's eyes
a filter-free gorgeous world
flowers speckle the nearby fields
and the trees huddle, reaching their roots
afar to cling the dirt in place from
gently drifting by, gently drifting.

Idyll

Taking it Back one Bank at a Time

We are the resilient, the silent masses
staring at you from the dark, denying you.
Our driftwood bodies float against the tide
you seek to make. Us, your constituent
of angry people, fuming at the gate.
We stand united, against you, the tyrant
who has yet to shoot our feet, or batter us
but we can feel the tide as it drifts across
our shoulders, and we fight it silently
water tries to cave us, to grab us under
but we are dead wood, unable to be sunk.
On us is carved the past, your fear,
and in us is bleached the truth.

The Court Date

I am not an expert like I pretend to be
I stand before this mirror in a wig
with pants too big to cover my hips
and shirts to hide my chest, covered
by robes of black. I am "right".

I preen my hair's white curls as they ask
if I wish to have tea or coffee on my gavel.
Neither is my preference. I choose tea.
Sophisticated, Refined, Judicial tea.

I galavant into my domain and ascend
to my pedestal, presiding like Zeus
over his constabulary. Beneath, I am cold

shivering. A bag of ice has tumored
itself in my lungs. I am housing butterflies
in the empty tumult of my stomach
as I must now pass judgement on this
human before me. She cowers, hair chopped
like a boys, a hollow stomach rotting
and lumps protrude from her everywhere.
She gazes up, defeated, presents me
her hands, pleading I look to see the work,
to feel it on my tongue, and taste it like wine,

Stealing a look at the clock that halos her head,
I see no time, and spot the dirt upon her left hand,
the callouses overlooked, the hard work forgotten
and I bang my gavel hard upon it's stand
send her flying away in tears rather than lingering
because I have twenty more to judge, no time.

Another comes before me, cowers at my feet
and I hide my cooing graces, my praise, my softness
so I may be this man on a pulpit, which scars me,
breaks me out in hives. I am no expert, but I judge
I am no ruler, but I sentence. I am no better than her.

I am her.

In the Witness of a Farmer's Hunt, a Huntsman Discovers Humanity

Sweet blaze, clean ash sign
Nice sun, dry coal line
Harsh ice, wet log rot
Stick cuts, lost my mind.

Bright tree, loud big hound
White Pine, bold tall mound
Dark mill, soft small mice
Red blood, bite neck downed

The Siren's Call

Tell me you feel the gentle breeze
whisking into your sails. They ruffle
your hair, and roll by as the deck heaves.
You can't blame them for your problems.

The seagulls drift and float like fleas
on the ship's tall sails, they muffle
their cawing screams, a ghostly weeze
You can't blame them for your problems.

The men have you back-stiff and seized
tied prisoner-tight. There was no scuffle
you asked for it. They followed your pleas.
You can't blame them for your problems.

So you give out at the knees.
They watch as you tussle,
unable to reach the coast trees.
You cannot blame them for your problems.

Poem of the day

The looming death is like a water-fart
refuses to vacate the premises
permeates the air, digs into nostril hair
looses the heavy cloud of foreboding that comes with
the SBD

We are drifting
on the tongue of a whale
the size of our universe
swirling and bobbing in
his saliva. Our lives just bubbles
quick to pop, and fluffed away
beneath the tongue tiny pockets
bumping, growing, exploding
and the air drifting up
to the expanse of room
he holds above his tongue.

I came to grips with my bubble life
before I came to grips with my neighbors
They color their bubbles hazel and blue
they design them with little spikes
color coded to pop bubbles of red or orange

I realized my colorless drifting protected me
my null attachment allowed their coats
to reflect off me, and they would see themselves
on me, and in me, and through me
never knowing I was colored clear.

It took longer to handle that this whale
had no bother about the acidic taste of color
on his tongue. He just continued on, never brushing
never flossing, never going to see a dentist.

We were at war
attempting to collect
the biggest bubble
the widest girth
baddest biggies
and chillest cats

but we
we would pop

just a bubble
racing to be so big, it would pop.

The pressure would grow
and we would find the wall, the floor, a tooth
a neighbor with a spike who didn't like our
hazy black of inclusiveness, and

Pop

Gone