I looked inside a book, and I saw nothing but shoals

By Corey Culbertson


I looked inside a book, and I saw nothing but shoals

Umbrage is dudgeon is resentment,

but I like the first word better.

It hints at the leaves that afford trees

and nose-shaped shadows that hang over tea.

Ethically speaking, truth lacks objective meaning,

but the concept is fun for beggars.

Lithe segments find spaces to call home,

but the deep pocket inside Man shows that

Over-wrought bridges drink whiskey—

spilling word-vomit and tallow on doors.

Vanilla ice-cream is a prank they pull on first-timers—

I didn’t use the spoon and instead stained my clothes.

I looked inside your soul and I found none,

but the letters that make up numbers labeled—

Resentment held over hunger ‘til man’s umbrage

turned into steady rage.

The masses cried,

limbs raised.
Bio: Corey Culbertson has been at the State College of Florida since Fall of 2012, and plans to transfer to New College of Sarasota in the Fall of 2014. He is currently studying the fantastic in the arts and horror literature. He is active in SCF’s writing club, Swamp Scribes, and is a regular participant in SCF’s open mic events where he has won honors. He has an interest in experimental works, and plans to begin writing a novel in the spring. You can find him reading somewhere around sunny Sarasota where he’s probably contemplating the philosophical underpinnings of unnecessary non-sequiturs and the mystifying nature of word vomit.

Breathless

By Kristina Rehak


As the time wastes away so does my soul,

Withered like someone’s age,

My day comes to its end.

Wishing that I can face the next day,

Knowing that no matter what,

I am going to have to deal with it anyway.

My eyes shut without my consent,

Dwelling in my dreams,

I overlook the problems of the day.

My loss of breath expands to a loss of energy,

I lay in the breathless state,

In the darkness of the room.

The only thing to comfort me,

Are the dreams to come,

And I fall into my restless sleep.

I dream of you and my breath sparks,

You are my breath and my hope,

To get through the next day.

So I smile as I dream,

Because I am with you,

Wishing my dreams will never end.

I awake, yet my breath dies again,

Because without you,

Every start of my day is really the end.

 

Bio: My name is Kristina Rehak, and I’m currently attending SCF to obtain my AA in Biology. After my 2 years I will be transferring to FAU on the East Coast of Florida to continue my schooling, to eventually obtain a Master’s in Marine Biology with a Minor in Oceanic Engineering. I am an animal and nature lover, and my favorite reading material is poetry. Favorite authors are Charles Bukowski and Percy Shelly Bysshe. I will be getting married Nov. 9th 2014, and my favorite hobbies is cooking and surfing.

no place like home

By Bonanza Jellybean


That house.

The house I hid away in; yes,

that house,

head under the blankets

to shut out

the daylight,

the landlord’s call,

the knocking

from anyone at all;

the face in the window,

that I don’t recognize,

but that looks a lot like me.

From here,

I stand to look at you, house,

with a stomach full of rocks.

Knowing

the contents of my life

still lie in the bottom of a box

forgotten in that corner by

the window that’s still shattered,

the red curtains closed,

bleeding over the things that

I thought mattered.

Inside,

stepping over clothes

forgotten after they were flung

masterpieces remain unfinished, and

pictures left unhung.

Cupboards are still empty.

Ghosts of “Remember When?” will still be

lying on the bathroom floor

like those people that

“I’ll never be like…”.

Outside,

the skinny black cat

still hides by the front door,

afraid to come in

and ask for more but

too hungry to run.

I can see all of this

from here, in a new house,

by a new window, looking out

of new curtains,

on a new bed,

with my new cat;

I can see this because

part of me is still there, in that

old house, in that old bed,

with my head under the blankets,

too hungry to run.

Ottis O’Riley

By Courtney Cournan


Every three weeks on the dot I hear my mother say,

You look homeless child go get a hair cut today,

As I obey her commands and do as I am told,

I venture to the nearby barber to get the mow,

I tell her short over here and same over there,

But for the middle make it stand straight in the air,

She looked pretty shocked — a well dressed boy like me,

Asking her to take the side parted hair to a Mohawk frenzy,

She did as she was told and I paid her extra for no comments,

But walking the neighborhood streets people were astonished,

Some glanced as I passed; others pointed in front,

How did little Ottis Riley get into this funk?

As I swung open the front door I saw mom doing the dishes,

I slammed it behind me and caused a uneasiness,

She dropped her plate smashing hard on the floor,

Her hands covering her mouth splashing up soap and more,

The screams still echoed deep in my head,

Hours later as I lay bald in my bed.

 

Bio: My name is Courtney Cournan; I am a twenty three year old dental assistant and college student. My goals in life are to become a dental hygienist and travel the world with missionary’s using my medical knowledge and religious beliefs to help others. I currently have about four more years of school until I will accomplish this goal, due to only going part time and working full time. I am proud of myself for getting threw this semester, English has never been one of my strong suits but I gave it my all and it turns out I truly took a big interest in poetry! It makes all the difference when you have a great professor. I hope you enjoy the poem!

Tabloids

by:  Megan Finsel

We are not amused! In this joke of yours

This reality you’ve made

Where the cost of popularity is higher than virginity

We are not amused

In your swag and your ‘tude

Yolo? Oh no! Mad bro? Ya know!

This reality isn’t real

Fake! Faux! False!

It’s a mirage in the desert distance,

A drink eluding your thirsty lips

We are not amused

In what you define as beauty

Beauty of skin, beauty on skin, injected in skin, and cut from skin

Or in what you consider stylish

It is appalling

How an open door, an open hand, a smile, a tipping hat

Has become so obsolete

We are not amused

In how you judge us, how you see us, how you hold us to paper cutouts, paper thin, and tell us: “look this way!” or “act this way if you want to be accepted!”

Do this! Do that! Cut this! Crimp that! Who are you to tell us how to be?

We are who we are the way we are for a reason beyond what your shortsighted eyes can view

We are not amused

How can I describe me? If you’ve seen me around campus I always have a paintbrush in my hair. I am an artist and a writer and (whether with words or with paint) telling stories is one of my greatest passions. I strongly believe that words can make a difference, and if my work can make at least one person smile, then I have done my job. I hope someday to be a Special Education teacher, but I know I will always tell stories. Now you know me 🙂

A Scottish Pirate Sea Shanty

By: Brandie Hyde

(A parody of “The Scotsman” originally performed by Bryan Bowers, original lyrics
by Mike Cross; Pirate themed adaptation)

 

Well a
pi-rate dressed in fine at-tire,
left the tav-ern he’d en-dared

It was
clear, by how he slur-ed his words,
that his poor liv-er had failed.
He stum-bled till was fin-nally forced
to yield; admit defeat,
then he craw-led in-to a
cor-ner
where he prom-ptly fell
a-sleep.

Yo ho
mat-ties!
un-der brutes for loots!
yo ho mate-il-ies my boot!
He crawled in-to a cor-ner
where he promp-tly fell
a-sleep.

Soon there
af-ter,
maid-en wench-es
wand-erd close near-by.
One whis-pers to the oth-er,
with some mis-chief on her mind.
“Let’s check that sleep-ing pi-rate,
bat-tle worn of pun-gent smell,
and see –for all their
brag-gin’
what they pack be-neath the
belt!

Yo ho
mat-ties!
un-der brutes for loots!
yo ho mate-il-ies my boot!
and see –for all their
brag-gin’
what they pack be-neath the
belt!

Exam-ined
for a min-unte,
then one says, they must move-on,
but as we de-part,
de-vise some art,
be-fore we all are gone.
They placed a ring of flow-ers,
‘round his pri-vate pi-rate mast,
for the gift of
in-for-ma-tion,
that their friend had just sur-passed

Yo ho
mat-ties!
un-der brutes for loots!
yo ho mat-il-ies my boot!
for the gift of
in-for-ma-tion,
that their friend had just sur-passed

Our pi-rate
wakes,
to par-rot’s squawk,
and crawls to the la-trine.
Dis-robes to ans-wer liq-uor’s urge,
and balks at this odd scene.

And with a
tone of star-tle,
to that which greets his eye,
“Well I’ve No i-dea just where ye been,
but it’s clear ye earned a prize!”

Yo ho
mat-ties!
un-der brutes for loots!
yo ho mat-il-ies my boot!
“Well I’ve No i-dea just where ye been,
but it’s clear ye earned a P-R-I-Z-E !!!”

 

BIO:
The past eighteen months have been, to put it politely, challenging. Essentially the end of life as I previously knew it. The return to college life following more than a decade hiatus has been, well… let’s call it colorful. I managed to survive my first semester back in the swing of things and am currently working on a second. It is my goal to complete an Associate in Arts Degree by December 2013 and continue on to study Criminal Justice Forensics.

Where I Come From…

by: Megan Briggs

I come from washed out wranglers and rugged brown boots
From sweet tea and fried pickled okra

I come from that “not-so-good” neighborhood
From greyhounds running lose and
Wal-Mart seems just a step away

I come from the eyes of the Birds of Paradise
From swaying palm trees
And the stench of cow pastures making my nose scrunch

I come from the Tidmores and the Briggs
From my grandpa who I never knew
From the “don’t make me get the paddle” and the
“Bobby don’t teach them that”

I come from freezing winter and sizzling summer nights of Seng High Rum
And an adopted aunt
From the emeralds that hold my memories of my granny
From the tombstone of my aunt I will never meet
From the old wooden house where once my Great Grandmother bartered with Indians

I come from slammed doors and broken glass
From the fights and the divorces and the tears and the pain
From my great uncle I won’t be able to share memories with because of a still born birth
From the baptism and confirmation
Where I became a true Lutheran

I come from mama’s hope chest where our ancestors are kept inside
From the shoeboxes of pictures especially the snapshots of my great
Grandmother and Father dancing under the moonlight
From the home videos of sweet 16’s and 15 year anniversaries

I come from all of this…

My name is Megan Briggs and I am a Florida native born and raised here in Bradenton. Living in a somewhat small town, growing up everyone knows everyone and I know a lot of people can relate to my poem about my life and “Where I Come From”. The poem is about little memories I have from my childhood, and also about family traditions. I come from a southern raised family, where family value and morals are beaten into your head until you got it. I enjoyed writing about my life and everything I can remember as a small child because it puts everything in perspective.

A Witch Hunt

by: Devin Christy
The shining sun sets

A crowd gathers around

The accused woman sweats

While a thick fog comes down

The quiet Earth is still

A blazing fire erupts

Fighting with the air so chill

Among them all are corrupt

Screams of pain echo in the night

Then screams slowly stop

They all believe that they are right

As the body goes with a flop

The crowd returns home again

Thinking a job well done

Not knowing one of them

Will be the next on the run

I am an eighteen year old college student submitting this poem as an assignment.

Elderly Man Found Drowned in River

by: William Peters

(Dramatic poem)

I float under here and hear the town’s words
You talked about me.
Your voices are soothing to me now, your consonants rounded,
Fuzzy around the edges.

When I walked the streets in town you took in my high waisted pants
My cataract eyes, my teeth (did I put them in?), my hair nearly gone
My unsteady gate; my pauses.
No one bothered to ask my name any more
It is Avery. It was Avery. You know it now.
Your voices were sharp, commanding,
“Move it old man!” You thought I could not hear and
I played along.

Please do not feel guilty. I hold no grudges. I like it here.
Everything is smooth, I am youth now, fluid. My thoughts float by.
The river is dark, vast, and deep,
But sure of itself.
Commanding my direction,
Finally I have somewhere to go.

I will drift a while, you can join me here.
Awash in comfort, rocked in warmth.
Feelings are different in the underneath
They sluice, languid and silky
Gliding along my skin
Dip and sway, roll away.

Here beneath my shoulders aren’t rounded,
The burden of myself is lifted,
Carried away on the lulling current.
The sunlight glitters, filtered, refracted,
Even it can’t reach me here.

Oh you’ll all walk away,
I know that,
But knowing that won’t change me.
Eventually I’ll be a skeleton,
No flesh, just bones
Resting on the bottom,
The memory of me.

William Peters was born in Missippi but was raised for most of his life in Flagstaff, Arizona. As a result he is a lover of mountain bicycling, snowboarding, and most things outdoors. William is married to his wife, Melony, and has 3 children and a fourth on the way. He is in school with the hopes of becoming a mechanical engineer with a love for poetry reading on the side.

Stranger on the Bus

by: Ksenia Arkhangelski

I don’t know who you are,

I don’t why you’re on the bus.

Maybe, like me, you crashed your car?

I don’t know what you’re thinking

As I sniffle next to you,

My heart like Titanic splitting, sinking.

I don’t know how your life’s been

You’ve no doubt shed more deserved tears

Than the silly ones dripping from my chin.

I don’t know your next destination,

Nor the worries fogging your mind,

Nor what gives you joy or frustration.

Still, I remember you, just for that time

When you told me it’ll be okay.

Your kindness inspired this rhyme.