Category: 2010 — 3.1 (Fall)

Behind Building 700 where life imitates art,
Are beautiful birds of all sorts, sizes and shapes.
Behind Building 700 is where I learn my trade,
Watching life imitate art.
Behind Building 700 I find my soul in the water,
Which also imitates art.
Behind Building 700 the lilies dance upon water,
Not always being seen as they imitate art.
Behind Building 700 the tall grasses sway in the breeze,
Imitating living art.
Behind Building 700 peace comes in waves of chirps,
Singing a song of imitating art.
Behind Building 700 the air is fresh with a clean smell of grass and dirt,
Imitating the smell of art.
Behind Building 700 is where I find myself,
My life, imitating art.

By Gina Eairheart

For you
I wish the pain of a thousand Australian saltwater crocodile’s jaws around your
All-Knowing-High-And-Mighty pretentious zit of a head.
Each jagged dagger pinching against your temple
And popping through your degrading hazel eyes
One tooth inserted through your ear canal,
Puncturing the thin drum and pressing against your cochlear,
Throwing off your equilibrium and as you fall to the ground
You land, briefly,
In the warm gaping mouth of an
Eighteen foot male during mating season at sundown
And he has the power to control each tooth
–one at the base of your occipital lobe, one against your forehead–
So that the last thing you see before that nail of death enters your skull
Is your brain splattered pinkish-grey on the roof of its clenched jaws.

by Chelsey Lucas

Biography

I’m a literature- and poetry-loving student of English!

we
are born writers, each of us
possessing genes with encryptions and encodings for
haireyesheightsexnailsteeth
every break in the chain is a chance
to rewrite ourselves—me, you, us

we
are born lovers
in our double helix dance
trading, exchanging, learning
growing, fucking, dying
leaving a mark on the hearts of
each other

we, you & me
      it’s in our DNA.

by Chelsey Lucas

Biography

I’m a literature- and poetry-loving student of English!

What is music?
Is it notes on a page?
Is it chords, arpeggios, scales, sharps, or flats?
Is it melody, harmony, alto, or bass?
Maybe.
Or,
Maybe,
It is the calming effect on a crying child.
It is the calming effect on you after a bad day.
It is the feel of the keys under your fingers.
It is knowing that you are capable of creating something beautiful.
It is feelings of anguish, sadness, love, and happiness.
It is emotion.
It is you.

by Grace Duyn

Always flowing, never slowing
splashing loud upon the rocky shore,
deep as the pit of my heart,
darker than the moonless night,
full of life, yet devouring all who dare to tame her.
Careless as a child, bolder than the lion,
an unstoppable force, the river.

by Michael DeLoach

Showering colors of mimosa and lilac
Gained inspiration from the organic sativa
Under the chandelier blooms on a ligustrum tree,
Until a philanthropist came one day
And brought with him syphilis and semantics,
As well as gluttonous scarabs, juggernauts, and thimbles.
They even brought ergonomic capitalism,
But the conundrum of it all
Was their eternal destiny
Of flesh eating predictability,
Until one day a Rasta came with a Revolution of Sunshine.

by Brittany Hoffman

Where are you the nights I cry?
Can you hear me, do you even try?
Do you wake up only to think you see me?
What do you dream about, who do you want to be?
Did you ever regret leaving your daughter?
Were you ever truly my father?
Does it eat at you at night like it does me?
Do you look around to see…
All that you’ve let go?
My heart became so cold,
Once you took away your hold.
Walk with your head down,
As those around you frown.
You fucked it up big time,
It could even be considered a crime.
Hope it hits you hard in the gut,
Hope it eats at you until you feel you’re about to give up,
Hope you cry yourself to sleep just as I do
Because I don’t want to hurt, I want you to….

by Tiffany Mills

Biography

I’m 22 years old going to school to be an Elementary school teacher. I work full time at a retail job that I cannot wait to quit and start my career! Writing has always been an outlet for me, although my poems/rants may not be up to professional standards, it’s a good way to release stress. =]

What happened to your leg?
Was it a car accident?
Was it your fault?
Did anyone die?
No.

What happened to your leg?
Was it a motorcycle wreck?
Was it a Harley?
Did a car cut it off?
No.

What happened to your leg?
Iraq?
Land mine?
Get it shot off?
No.

What happened to your leg?
Leprosy?
Painful?
Did it rot away?
No.

What happened to your leg?
Alligator?
Sneak attack?
Did it get ripped clean off?
No.

Let me ask you,
Do I know you?
Are we friends?
No.

by Jay Foulk

Biography

I’m a totally serious, quiet person who loves his church and conservative values.

Laying upon the lawn
Gazing at the night’s sky
So peaceful I yawn
Near by passes a firefly
A noise appears in the distance
A familiar sound
A sound giving joyance
Sinking into my background
Livening up my mood
Bringing cheer into my heart
My ears are glued
To this melody that’s pouring art
A childhood memory set free
Siblings listening in the past
A re-occurrence of tune so softly
Longing for it to forever last
Pleasure flows throughout my veins
As the beat rumbles my ear drum
Hasty lyrics jump out with no constrain
Block out the outside world and turn up the volume

by Katelynn Gudenau

Biography

I recently graduated from North Port High School this June. I am a freshman at SCF this year. My future plans are to major in nursing and receive a masters as a nurse practitioner.

Your ankles did not birth feathers
like those of the messenger Mercury.
Your shoulder blades did not break open
to allow the emergence
of angel-esque wings.
Yet you have taken flight.

Like a glittering constellation,
Your proud proclamation
of self
lights you from within.
It has propelled you up high,
Where you can defy
every scientific rule.
Look down and see the world
grow smaller beneath you.

They sky is not the limit,
it is simply your highway
to destinations,
near and far,
farther and farthest.

Life is not a race,
it’s not about
that ribbon snapping across your chest.
It’s the journey,
it’s all those moments you stop to breathe,
and it’s all the stops in between.

It’s the flight.

by Taylor Meredith