CHASING Butterflies - Northeast Mississippi Community College

NEMCC CREATIVE WRITING
CLASS 2007 Proudly Presents
A Collection of Prose and
Poetry:
chasing Butterflies
Happiness is like a butterfly:
The more you chase it,
The more it will elude you.
But if you turn your attention
To other things, it will come
And sit softly on your shoulder.
-Thoreau
CHASING Butterflies
15 Chasing
Butterflies
The 2007 Edition
Of Tyger Symmetry—
The Northeast MS CC
Creative Writing Class Journal
2 The Northeast Mississippi Community
College Creative Writing Class dedicates the
2007 edition of Tyger Symmetry to Kurt
Vonnegut, who went home on April 11, 2007.
“And I urge you to please notice when you are
happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at
some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know
what is.’”—In These Times
3 Tyger Symmetry is the publication of the NEMCC Creative
Writing Class ENG 2133, a sister publication of Scribbles, the
Professional Writing Magazine of Northeast MS
Community College. This year, the Creative Writing Class
was added to the curriculum at NEMCC. Students are from
various backgrounds and produce writings of all genres,
including fiction, poetry, classical prose, theatrical plays,
screenplays, journalism works, and comic strips. Some of our
activities included visiting middle school students and presenting
lectures and readings to encourage the love of writing,
participating in open mic night at the local coffee shop, opening
and maintaining a Myspace page to network with each other
outside of school (and network with other writers), working
with a voice and diction coach to improve our public reading
ability, hosting and presenting a reading at NEMCC, visiting
with a published author for advice, attending the MCCCWA
conference and banquet, participating in the MPS and
MCCCWA writing contests (and placing in four areas), and
creating a writing journal of some of our works. We would
like to give special thanks to Kathy Green and VicePresident Nabors for supporting a new curriculum, Dr,
Emory Jones, Dr. Deborah Kehoe, and Lynn Jones for
their guidance, assistance, and friendship in the process,
Christopher Schager for his time spent coaching our voices
and minds, Janna Jones, Bobby Smith, Devin Norman, and
Andrew Johnson for assisting with editing, Brad Holley for
production, and all our special muses who never fail to inspire
and keep us going.
4
Table of Contents
Class Members
Keith Alexander………………………………………………………………………………..…………6-8
Brice Beck…………………………………………………………………………………………………9-11
Bethany Cheatwood……………………………………………………………………………………12-14
Greg Clayton……………………………………………………………………………………………..15-17.
Callie Daniel……………………………………………………………………………………………..18-20
A.J. Dru………………………………………………………………………………………………….21-23
Danielle Grimes…………………………………………………………………………………..……24-26
Jamayne Hall……………………………………………………………………………………………27-29
Janna Jones………………………………………………………………………………………………30-32
Kimberly Mitchell……………………………………………………………………………………….33-35
Nisa Moody………………………………………………………………………………………………36-38
Devin Norman…………………………………………………………………………………………..39-41
Stacey Phillips……………………………………………………………………………………...…..42-44
Anna Shadburn………………………………………………………………………………………….45-47
Kimberly Shelton………………………………………………………………………….……………48-50
Bobby Smith………………………………………………………………………………..……………51-54
Erica Tables………………………………………………………………………………………..……55-57
Daniel Taylor……………………………………………………………….……………………..……58-60
Alan White………………………………………………………………..………………………………61-63
Friends of the Class
Amanda Burcham Garvin………………………………………………………………..……………….65
Hayley Horton……………………………………………………………………..…………………………66
Emory Jones………………………………………………………………………………………………..…67
Lynn Jones…………………………………………………………………………………………………..….68
Josh Martin…………………………………………………………….………………………………….…..70
Savannah Erin Walker…………………………………………………….…………………………..…..71
5 Pictures and Illustrations provided by Daniel Taylor, myspace.com, and photobucket.com keith corell alexander keith is a 21 year old art major currently attending nemcc and working on an associate degree. he is from tishomingo, ms. keith is a former member of the united states military. though his poetry is featured, his gift is writing military sci-fi. he considers writing to be a therapeutic hobby.
6 Silhouette
I awake on the ground
Bloody, beaten, and confused
My arm feels broken but I’m afraid to look
I can’t feel my legs, I’m not sure why
Not sure how long I’ve been laying here
Come to my senses and realize that my darkest fear has arrived
The Silhouette of a darkened figure
Hovering above; he calls himself the reaper
He lends me his hand and helps me to stand
I ask him why
He Merely shakes his head as a reply
Angered by his response I turn away
And catch a glimpse of the incident that caused my demise
My memory starts to return as I gaze upon the two wrecked cars
In a drunken state; I was driving alone after some stupid fight
I had at home
My vision was blurred but I can still see the other car
As I speed around the curve
I look again to the other vehicle
And realize it’s not me the reaper is after
He holds my daughter in his arms; she was on her way home from the Prom
The Silhouette of a Darkened Figure
Hovering above; He calls himself the Reaper
7 Therapy I Need I was angered by the ways of my father Whenever he was around life was harder He sat on his a&% and was consumed with the past I guess he never really was a good father I’m a reflection of the pain in my mother She could never seem to keep a steady lover She spent the rest of her days Just wasting away I guess she never really was a good mother I tried to live a normal childhood But my hateful family thought it was too good Eventually I was just labeled as crazy Now I spend the rest of my days Here in therapy
8 Hello everyone;
my name is Brice
Beck. I attended
Iowa State my
first year of
college in 2005.
After finishing
my freshman year,
I transferred
here to Northeast
CC to play football.
I have taken over
41 hours at NE in
order to graduate
in one year, and
carried a 3.5 GPA.
Recently, I signed
to play football at
the University of
Louisiana at
Monroe. I will
start attending
there in July.
BRICE BECK
9 Hell There is nothing but darkness Fire and the sound of screams Wandering like a blind man, Stumbling over my own feet Walking on a bed of nails Blood rushing from my heals I scream, I am surrounded by laughter Scorching heat provoked by dry winds My eyes start to adjust There is something watching A sudden rush Arms torn away from my body Demons feeding on my flesh The laughter continues My legs are torn away I land on my chest Staring into a pool of blood Life slips away I awake, to restart my journey For the rest of eternity
10 American Society
We grow larger while the fast food industry profits—
Continue to pay the outrageous gas prices that were set by the
President’s company sponsors.
We are at war, yet we can not determine why.
Tons of illegal aliens pour into our country every day,
stealing jobs…
But we continue to create lenient laws toward these actions
What is happening to our country?
The American economy has gone to shit.
Maybe it is the president we elected,
Or did we elect the president?
We continue to suffer from lack of job opportunity
While professional athletes continue to make millions.
Celebrities are constantly escaping the courts due to salary.
Policy states that every man/woman is equal—
What is policy?
Who makes policy?
The foreign, senate, congress?
What is happening to our country?
America, you are losing your swagger!
You no longer are the land of freedom and justice—
The people have lost their power and they are unhappy.
Now is the time for change; you must rise to your potential.
We must correct these problems; we must find solution.
What will happen to our country?
11
BETHANY CHEATWOOD
is an ENglisH
Education major at
Northeast MS Community
College. She plans on
attending Ole Miss in the
fall. She attends
church at the Faith
Assembly of God and
values her friends
and her ideals.
Along with a love
for the written word,
Bethany also loves paleontology and environmentalism.
We consider her the “Earth Mother” of our class.
Her poetry reflects great concern for the world and
a deep connection with environment, Human Experience
and Emotion.
12 DOLPHIN DREAMS
Sunburn and squinted eyes,
Salty mists and splashing waves,
Flip-flops, photographs, laughter:
Summer 1994.
But one image from that Dream-Season,
One picture,
One memory
Remains more vivid than any other,
Stronger than the wind in sailboats;
Brighter than the ocean that shone
Like a thousand gemstones;
Just as solid as my father’s hand
On my shoulder, steadying my
Fear of the water
Is the scene that unfolded
On the top deck of the ferry
In the open ocean;
Dolphins.
Two silvery silhouettes
Made a ballroom of the sea
Alongside the boat.
I fixed my eyes:
Just for me, they danced.
They twisted, turned,
Bounded, spun, dove,
And frolicked in their watery playground.
Just for me.
Then I was invited into their
Simple –wise conversation.
I understood their clicking, squealing, and whistling:
“Be happy and carefree. Love.”
Then they swam away.
I have since grown,
Experienced.
Still I Dream;
I awake an adult once more—
But only to sleep again
And Dream of Dolphins.
13 GLACIERS
Glaciers move.
Glaciers melt.
I know because I have felt
My sanity deteriorate.
Awake, active. While I should rest;
But my Best is required—
Everyone desires it from me.
So many obligations:
Ideas,
Delegations.
Compete for my attention.
The temperatures rise,
And by my surmise,
The ice won’t last much longer.
People,
Work:
Never a moment to Live.
I’m moving farther and farther
Into the torrid life‐climate—
Melting all the while—
Leaving solidity far behind,
For my mind is losing its
Compact, concrete consistency;
The glaciers slowly surrenders
To the changing earth.
Strength and resolve fade.
Now the waters cascade!
And my thoughts are fluid,
Taking the shape of whatever contains
them,
No longer independent—
No longer independent…
The glacier finally relinquishes the
battle,
The last crystals glimmering in the sun
As they liquefy.
I’ve crossed the line,
And nothing is right.
My thoughts begin to trickle away,
Seeking a path.
Gradually, meditation flows
More and more wildly,
Violently,
Refusing to be confined.
Faster and faster the water rushes—
Until—
My consciousness delves into the Sea…
…Other glaciers have melted
And come here.
More than me?...
Others undergo the same strains,
The same every‐days and hard‐ways.
So many have sojourned,
And now I’ve learned that maybe—
Melting isn’t so bad;
We become part of each other through
our hardships;
The waters transfuse.
We collaborate.
We teach and inspire each other.
Then, when normalcy returns,
We freeze again;
We freeze, solidify,
Become stable,
All together.
No longer am I just myself,
But I’m also a part of all the other
Glaciers.
And they are a part of me.
Again, I’m a strong, solid part of the
earth:
Something to be discovered.
And we are all sane and content.
Ice our minds started and as ice they
end.
The same as begun—
But never the same again.
14 Greg Clayton wrestled giant
pythons for the first few years of his life in
the jungles of the Amazon. After he killed
eight pythons in one day, the indigenous
people of the jungle made him leave. He then
came to America and in his teens became an
angst ridden poet/songwriter. He still
wrestles the occasional python and even an
anaconda or two every once in a while. In
all seriousness, Greg is known for writing
mythical and advanced fiction involving
characters of gothic persona and mystic. He
is also a poet whose evolving work shows
great insight and emotion. He is currently an
English major at Northeast Mississippi Community College and enjoys comedy
and alternative music along with writing**************************!
NOT GOOD ENOUGH
I don’t buy your sh%>
you can’t even be honest with me
But that’s okay
I never Really needed you anyway
you’ll see I’ll make it on my own
If I never meant anything to you
why did You hang around
I would have Given you my Heart
and I would not have Cared
it would have been Your’s
this Always happens to me
Why?
why am I Not Good Enough
you say Friendship
I hear Friendship
15 I am Fat
Yes!
I am Ugly
Yes!
but I thought You were different
but Now I see you’re just like All the rest
but you needn’t fret
I Won’t be around for you to Crush
I would have been different from All the
Rest
but now you’ll never know
I hope this Burnt bridge keeps you warm
because I Won’t
I can’t Pretend I don’t Care
but when my Memories become Bad Dreams
I will be fine
you needn’t comfort me
I will be fine Without you
If you Came back today
I would stupidly Let you back in
you Can Break my guards without trying
and every time you leave me crying
I’ll Forever wonder why
I Was
Not good ENOUGH
16 Under a Dead Mississippi Sky
Under a Dead Mississippi sky
Eleven friends stand around my Grave
Waiting
Watching
Wishing
Calling me back Home
I hear
but I do not Heed
for I Do Not Count the eleven
as my Friends
they Know this
but for some reason they still count
me as a Friend
as one of the Crew
but then I see one who was Not
there before… He is also
Waiting
Watching
Wishing
Calling me Back Home
he catches my attention because
He is the only one I call Friend
he begins to play “Welcome Home” by Coheed and Cambria
my Favorite band
I listen intently
he is Begging me to come back
I Contemplate
I Return home
and say to the one Friend… So You are the Voice that’s
been calling me Back Home
he Replies with a simple Yes
the Eleven are shocked
when I tell them
I Heard You All
but had No reason to listen
I hope at this they will leave me
but Yet
They still count me as Friend
as one of the Crew
and I do as well I guess
because Under a Dead Mississippi sky
we must stick together or
Mississippi Will Kill Us All
17 CALLIE DANIEL
Callie grew up in IUKA, MS
where nothing ever happened to her.
However, it was not until
her arrival in another small town,
Booneville, MS, to attend Northeast
Mississippi Community College, that
she really began to come into her
own. She has just only turned twenty
and is majoring in Journalism and
will be attending the University of
Mississippi in the Fall of 2007
(Hotty Toddy?)
Japanese Fridays
’s s
The clicking together of awkward chopsticks
Makes me laugh and I can’t help but make a joke,
Because your clumsiness is just another of your tics.
Something that only you can provoke.
Swallowing your sushi in one gulp might lessen
The strange texture, or so you say, as rice
Flies out of the corner of your mouth. Therein
Lies your sense of humor and the precise
Way in which you can make a common night
So easy to live in Sweet rolls for dessert
Were such a let down. The dusted sugar was light.
Japanese grill is always a must before a Tupelo concert.
Nothing about our Friday night routine gets old,
Except maybe for that foreign candy that never gets sold.
18 ohio
and as we drove as far north as I had ever been.
i saw the patches of snow on the ground, so unfamiliar to me…
and that is when I thought of you.
the thought of snow was even more unfamiliar to you.
your florida skin had longed for the touch of cooler air.
to think you pulled into these same streets,
seeing the patches of snow for the first time in your life, only a few days
before.
and I felt like I was walking in your shadow, in the traces of where you
were.
and I wondered if I kept following could I ever catch up with you?
i could imagine you in the snow…
that genuine bearded smile,
showing off and reflecting the light of this new precipitation.
i will imagine it and believe you looked more at peace than anyone on
earth.
all this may seem too grand,
but ohio has made me miss you all the more.
19 breakdown.
Drop t his down.
Right here and now.
Rip the boards from this tethered house
Bend your mind around something new.
You never once believed the truth.
You say your setting this loose
But the theatrics started with you.
Glorify insecurity and own it
I perpetually foot the bill
Relieve the pressure
But make it count
One precise rip will cause it all to fall
Straight back into anonymity
Fashion this manipulation to your liking
Bare it all and bite your lip
Take it all to heart
You missed, that’s my gut
Drop your houses from this vanilla sky
You mean you couldn’t read my mind?
Sleeping tight is cause for suffocation
Never should be scared of the ones like you.
Can I scream this any louder?!
You would never lift your head
The pain takes your attention
Not sure you even cared
Wall yourself up with all the affirmation
That’s all you search and seek
Declaring action for those words
Follow up was never seen.
You’re not alright with me kid.
I don’t want a slight of hand
Or some slick verbally aesthetic word vomit
Stop hurting means to stop thinking
20 A.J. Dru
(Andrew Johnson) is a freelance writer &
English major at NEMCC. He has received
statewide awards for poetry and essay
works and has earned various
publications.
He writes alternative
style fiction and analytical poetry. He
currently resides in the NE Mississippi
area.
Does God smoke Cigarettes?
Smoke swirls and rolls away
Whether a breath drags from us or not.
We crumble like white –ash decay the longer
we burn,
Faster the more we‛re used.
Our filters try to catch the poisons in the world,
But some always creep through
Because we want them to, of course.
That is what we desire.
We crave the incubus of sin.
And soon our smoldering lives will burn too long,
Our smoke will cease as were silently smothered
And replaced by another just the same,
Leaving behind nothing but a choking stink
And a staining residue on everything we‛ve touched.
(Something only outsiders notice,
Those that have never tasted the bitterness)
For us veterans it‛s normal, some even need it.
Addiction is sometimes stronger than will.
Still, we smile as if it made a difference,
Like ember hearts glowing,
Pulsating in complete darkness,
Dancing in glory like candlelight,
Assuring ourselves that someone cares
Just before we‛re carelessly flicked out
Across the wet, light-streaked pavement
Of an empty parking lot.
Yet we continue to burn,
As If any of this matters at all.
21 A Wall Between us
Depressed,
Deep inside myself.
These secrets that I conceal
Keep me alone forever
Regret,
What have I done?
But I can’t change..
I can’t amend the past.
Building a wall between us
Tall and wide
Confused,
Living in Black –Hole static,
Awake for days and days,
And forgetting who I am.
Lonely,
Even with you here
Naked on the bed with me
Moving like machines.
I started building a wall between us
When my love for you died.
Wounded,
Rejection is a murderer
And silence can sometimes kill.
Every moment is deadly.
Wasted,
My time with you,
Life flashes by in a blur,
All these things add up.
Building a wall between us,
Tall and wide
Behind this wall between us
I live and hide
Building a wall between us,
Tall and wide.
22 To See Myself Through your Eyes
I came to you wounded, dragging my shadow,
feeling like sh&% with my shattered dreams.
You welcomed me with a smile. You glow like fire.
Emotionally naked, I sat there before you
and tossed my soul in the air, hoping you could catch.
You plucked me from outer space. Black matter darkness
as deep as the universe all around me,
swimming in zero-gravity after the tiny pieces of my heart.
“Man down,” I cried out, looking in your direction.
You met my eyes and saw the pain was real.
With a mother’s care, interest and understanding,
you watched my performance on your stage of the world.
As I tried to convince you that my life was over,
I fought back the tears but held on to nothing else,
Praying you could change my mind.
When you spoke, it was wisdom, experience of time
and a path that walked quite close to mine.
Holding no judgment, you listened like God.
My personal angel sent to save me from Hell,
you walked into the fire burning out of control.
You saved me that day and again with a gift
of golden thoughts, more than words on a page.
As my eyes danced across them, you stopped time for me.
You took me out of this world and moved me in every way.
The greatest feeling to see myself through your eyes.
23 Danielle Grimes grew up in Shannon, MS, where she developed an appreciation for creatures, nature, baked goods, making things, and turnip greens. She spent most of her time as an adolescent writing about her sad love life and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Currently, she resides in Booneville, MS dividing her time between her friends’ houses, participating in activities like “Trashy Thursday,” and sitting on porches until the sun comes up. She is an award winning, published poet with MPS.
TEA PARTY
If I could slip away for an afternoon
I’d sit under a big oak tree
Rachel Carson, Maya Angelou, Jane Goodall, and me
They’d push my hair right out of my face
I’d pour them a little more tea
“Honey, things won’t always be this way,” Maya would say to me
As she pulled the petals from a flower
Rachel would say with a soft little smile,
“We all make our own mistakes, child”
Ms. Goodall would bring us chocolates,
She’d force me to eat more than one.
In our sundresses and floppy hats, we’d do our best to avoid the sun.
24 My Stars are not your Stars
I stood where your street intersects mine
For what felt like a hundred years
But I’ve come back around to my side of town
And here is where you can find me.
These sidewalks know my footsteps
And don’t remind me of yours.
These houses shout out welcomes
And beg me to dance on their floors.
My side of town is lacking the sound
Of your breath and your laugh and your voice.
Here I shall be, waiting for thee
Until I can wait no longer.
I stood on my doorstep counting
For what felt like a thousand years,
And your hands and mouth were nowhere to be found,
But I stumbled upon some peace
And myself in the process.
The part of me that is lacking you
Is actually quite lovely.
Things are looking down on this side of town,
And I long for new skies above me.
I will not sail to a far-away place,
And in the waves I will not see your face.
I will not feel your words and your hands in the wind,
And I will never come back to this place again.
My stars are not your stars.
I care not if you’re wishing for me.
Distance is freedom,
And freedom is peace.
25 .
Heartache or Something Like it Well I can’t find the medicine to make me get better and I’ve dirtied my pretty new dress And these sour faced boys are starving and silent And squeezing the life out of me Beneath blankets and stars we lie so beautiful Smoothing our wrinkles and covering our knees But once upon a time I thought life was wonderful And love not worth living without Maybe I’m just a modern day Cinderella Staring at my reflection in my stepmother’s floor And waiting for a skinny white boy to rescue me And I’D give it all to you if you’d let me Stay the night and sleep in your bed Make me coffee tomorrow and we’ll smoke cigarettes Or say the right words and we’ll sleep all day instead If life had only turned out how I’d pictured it With a little less heartache and a little more sex I’d gladly not keep my heart so clandestine And not mind so much shaving my legs.
26 Hello, I could start out with the usual
“my name is,” but the fact is I’m known
by so many different names that I can’t
introduce myself using just one because
I’d have to tell you all of them. My
government name is Jamayne Jontae Hall.
My friends call me Tae, my stage name is
“Da Poet.” I choose not to tell you the rest
of my aliases. I’ve been writing for about
nine years now. I love to write, but I hate
being made to write. I write for self therapy;
I write from the heart. At one point in
my life, I felt like I had so many emotions
raging inside me that I had to get myself
together. Almost like I had to reunite
with myself. I call it
Soul Reunion…
(Anyone interested
in hearing or purchasing
Jontae’s music may visit his
website at
http://www.myspace.com/dapoet87
What does it mean to dream?
To Dream…is to glare into the future
And never look back
To hold back nothing
And Dream…
To Dream…is to stand alone
When the others have gone,
And nobody knows your soul…
Just Dream…
To Dream…is to hold your head,
No matter what they’ve said,
because compared to actions words are nothing.
Always give something and Dream.
To Dream…is to stand your ground
And never stop trying…
No matter the odds we must never stop fighting.
And in the end when my pen stops writing…
I Dream.
27 Soul Reunion
At times it’s hard to wipe away
My eyes and look within
Then, I pick up my pad and pen
And write about my sins.
This is my problem; you see it’s
Like there’s two inside of me.
We fight over air like there’s not enough
For us to breathe.
Okay, sorry I went too fast.
Let me take a breath.
Somewhere inside this game I must have
Lost my other self.
Or maybe I got dusty cause I left me on the shelf.
As the pendulum swings,
I wonder how much time is left.
Because I must reunite my soul to become whole. Then and only then can my story truly be told.
So many metaphors, similes, and figures of speech,
In six years, stacking my collection of poetry.
Yet and still it seems that so many
don’t understand.
I draw the pain from the hearts of men
And shoot it thru my pen.
They wonder why I’m quiet
While the others are talking.
To understand you must put on my shoes
and start walking.
I want to stop talking and start chasing my dreams
But lyrically a pool of cement is
surrounding my feet.
28 United Thru the Struggle: Reaching out to our Black Youth These dark clouds got me thinking Black people won’t ever make it. And if we do, these people hate it. They say our president is racist. And they don’t really have to discriminate. They give us guns sit back and we choose our own fate. And why do we make ourselves look ignorant and others intelligent? The big man owns the businesses, we just work hard punching the clock and make them rich. And we can’t forget about this dope game that’s destroying our brains. And causes our relatives to lie, steal, cheat, and go insane. The least we could do is try to flip the Dope funds to make our folks some wealth. Invest this money into Businesses for our Black communities. Let’s help watch each other. In order to survive we must have Unity or become extinct amongst the masses. But na, we too blind to see that. Niggaz see folks celebrities “flossin cadillacs on 22s” so Niggaz want to be that. Sometimes it seems as if our people are confused. I understood Pac’s “A Rose that Grew from the Concrete” because sometimes it seems that my people were cursed since birth. Just like that Rose in the poem. It seems like we were thrown into this world without wings, but yet you ask us to fly. We must be like that Rose that sprouted from the crack in the concrete. Even though our roots haven’t enough room to breathe, we still must find a way to bloom and show that our petals do have beautiful colors. We must drink, even with no one to bring us water. I Hate the struggle. But I love Black People. We come from the struggle. In our hearts, We represent the struggle from which we originated; so in a way, we are the struggle. I guess I do love the struggle. I AM A BLACK MAN. I LOVE WHAT I AM.
29 Janna Jones
grew up in Booneville, a tiny town in the rolling
foothills of Northeast Mississippi. By the time she graduated high school,
she realized she was quickly outgrowing her surroundings. She set her
sights on journalism and getting out of Mississippi. Janna recently received
her Associate's in Communications from NEMCC. At the end of the summer, she
will be moving to Oxford to expand her horizons and study Journalism at Ole
Miss. She works in the George E. Allen Library, where she often finds
herself overwhelmed by the sheer volumes of knowledge that surround her.
When she's not writing, Janna enjoys reading, traveling, and doing nothing.
She lives in Booneville...for now.
30 For a Friend
I peer through a grimy window
into the dark recess of your life.
Through the filth, I see you
huddled in a black corner
legs drawn to your chest
face buried in your arms.
I try to rub the muck away
bring some light into your darkness
but the window is stained
with the yellow residue
of life and cigarettes.
I pound on the glass-to break it and free you
or to get your attention
I'm not sure which-but the glass doesn't break
and you don't see me.
I start to yell
screaming at the top of my lungs
still hammering fists on the pane
but you don't hear me.
I stop yelling
I stop pounding
and quietly I begin to cry
for the wretched soul of my dear friend
and finally--finally-you look up.
31 Matches
I am just a dreamer
With a box full of matches.
I strike them, one by one.
Some flicker and die,
Send smoke swirling skyward.
But sometimes—sometimes—
The flame catches,
Blazes to life.
These I use to ignite my future.
I am just a dreamer
With a box full of matches. Photograph
Tucked into the back of an old album,
there is a photo I have seen so many times
that I know its every detail by heart.
In front of a gleaming mirror stands a man,
lean and strong, hardened by years of toil;
A man who, even in his sixtieth year,
could lift two fifty­pound bags of horse feed
like it was nothin’.
In his arms is a girl with cornsilk hair and chubby cheeks
covered with thick white foam, “just like Papaw.”
The man’s own lather­covered face
is stretched into a wide smile,
eyes are crinkled at the corners,
like the girl’s whenever she grins.
And though it isn’t pictured, I know she will take
the flat wooden stick in her plump little fingers
and pull it across her face, shaving, “just like Papaw.”
A simple memory, put precious nonetheless
as a lifetime later, the same girl
sits in a bland hospital room
and watches her grandmother
shave the man who, years ago,
could lift two fifty­pound bags of horse feed
like it was nothin’.
And as that Good Night slowly begins to creep in,
I can’t help but think of that photograph
And mourn the Dying of the Light.
32 KIMBERLY MITCHELL: Hey,
what’s good everyone? First
and foremost, I’d like to thank
you for taking the time to read
my poems. I hope that you
enjoy reading them as much
as I enjoyed writing them. I
was born and raised in
Columbus, MS and writing has
been a love of mine since 1998.
Yet, I still haven’t achieved the
expertise that I anticipated.
That only leaves room for me
to continue to practice. What
better way to practice, than
joining a class for it? I
decided to attend Mrs.
Garvin’s Creative Writing Class to better my experience and knowledge in
poetry and songwriting. While there’s still room for improvement, she’s
educated me in so many unimaginable ways. If I were you, I’d try her out.
If you hear from me again or read my work, remember this—this world is
my sickness and my pencil is the valium.
ADDICTED
Slowly cooked words of my soul
Shot into your veins.
Sniff a line of emotions.
From yourself, you’ll briefly refrain.
The first one’s on me.
I’ll place you in my shoes.
As I exhale motives
Second hand reasoning creeps inside of you
Pop every word.
Take it to the head with punctuation.
Hangovers are unheard
After this overwhelmed intoxication
I’ll abandon you
Leaving your desires in need
On the corner of Imagine and Ponder
Now you are my poetic junkie.
*Feed Your Addictions*
33 Making love… (to my Mind) Come Inside… Caress my mind. Embrace my thoughts. Intertwine with my emotions. Without a single touch Kiss me… Feel me… Tease me… Think of each Passionate Sensation I Leave with you. Thrust your beliefs Because sometimes, I like it rough. I’ll Ride Your mental waves Until I Feel the Rush Of Climaxed Pleasure. Even though firm, You tenderly hold my Feelings in your arms. *** The Sting of celibacy Quickly brings us back to reality. For, we have Abstinent bodies With Nymphomaniac Minds.
34 Home
Blaring screams of his poignant children
Will no longer be heard
For nothing remains but his soul.
His immortality encircles around
The chilled stainless steel
As if it was Joshua determined
To overthrow the walls of Jericho.
While his body is clothed with the finest,
Reminding his wife of the
Sunset evening they became one,
Her eyes of hope looked beyond
His favorite necktie
And solemnly prayed for movement.
A course of saline liquid intensely increased
Because her prayers were never answered.
Even though physically separated,
His memories lingered within her.
Over twenty years of devotion
Lying to rest in her heart.
As a heavenly voice tickled her ears
And silenced the deafening cries therein,
Her lips slowly curved
To form what appeared to be a smile.
For now she knows her husband
Has finally reached his destination,
Home.
35 NISA MOODY
Nisa is a 19 year old
English major from
Corinth, MS. She
enjoys reading,
painting, and eccentric
movies.
She has also been
known to write songs
in her spare time.
Nisa’s poetry is very
poignant and
profoundly accurate
in describing the
nature of relationships
and
in employing allusions.
She adores poetry,
Shakespeare, and Poe along with many charismatic and
contemporary authors.
DANTE
Just as the punishment of sin
Is the sin itself
Love is its own damnation
It rips viciously through the heart
And causes either the most
Extraordinary joy
Or
The most unimaginable pain
36 The Beauty in Sinking Ships
my tear stained cheeks
Were enough to make you say
you were sorry
but they weren’t enough
To make you believe it.
black-eyed and shaken
a mess of a dreamer
i still got up
a broken heart still beats
mores the pity
when all you want to do is die
i covered the bruises.
you f ‘n bastard.
be a man.
that’s right.
I said it.
just because I survived
doesn’t make it okay
but scars are souvenirs
you never seem to lose
i still struggle
through the brightest nights
and the darkest days
when I try to convince myself
I AM MORE
than what you’ve made of me
i used to have a voice
once.
but now I don’t make a sound
you made sure of that
the day you almost broke my jaw
but then again
i don’t really need words
When I’m picking myself
Up off the ground
i am not one to be pitied
i am not a “poor thing”
remember this moment
when I stand up
and walk away
37 ********Ophelia *******
My tears form a river
that drown my soul.
My heart lies battered
and bruised
and there’s nothing left
of what once was my joy.
My innocence
has been ripped away
by your greed for control.
What compassion I had
has left me.
A cold heart now dwells
where sympathy should lie.
I would remember the good times
if only they didn’t
remind me of the bad.
The sorrow I feel for you
has made me numb...
to the good things I once had
And wary of any
yet to come.
I have been cursed,
but by my own hand.
My caution is my own fault.
I never thought I’d be
so easily deceived.
15 Hi. I’m Devin Norman.
Pleased to meet you. I’m
not going to ramble on and
on about myself in some selfindulgent rant. There’s no
point. As far as “About me”
all anyone needs to know is
that I love you. “Through
my ambition to achieve the
most supreme goals, far
greater than any wishgranting gem, may I always
dearly cherish every being.”
There’s my creed. I try to
stay positive. The only
person that can make you
happy is you. So do it.
Life’s too short. Granted, I invented this page to appeal to people
whose friendships I already possess, but if I may inspire one person
reading this to love one another and themselves, then I have done
something far greater than any synopsis of my personality.
Peace be with you all…
39 Soup D’Jour
I had lunch with God today.
We sat in a diner on the West Side of town,
Sipped coffee, smoked cigars, and remembered when.
I love these lunch dates.
“It’s been a while,”
He had said.
It had.
I couldn’t even remember how long.
“Still the same, huh, Daddy?”
I’d replied.
He grinned.
He was mostly silent,
With the ever‐so‐appropriate
Reassuring nod.
I talked of the weather,
Politics,
Power,
Pride,
The Promise.
He patted me on the shoulder,
Lit my cigar with a wave of his
Majestic hand.
I picked up the check,
(it was the least I could do).
I left gratuity, he left a tip,
And we went along our way.
Together.
Even though lunch was over.
40 Faces
“Put your face on, kid.”
A Brando-esque voice resonates in my head.
Oh so quick to comply, I shed my midnight wool and paint on a smile.
Deluged by a sea of “How-do-you-do’s,” I hold my smile until
My lips split.
Pursed, and on which tiny drops of blood now form,
My lips quiver in anxiety as I ski along the sea of faces.
In accordance, so do my eyes fill with water,
In which I see my reflection.
I feel so wrong, so very wrong.
Mask smiling ever so gently,
And screaming ever so silently.
I pray.
I pray to escape the voices—
The ones that not everyone hears.
I hear them.
Their message is for me, so I hear them.
I’ve almost reached my proverbial destination,
When a stranger stops me and
Poses a cathartic question.
I lose it.
My books, my mind, my emotional restraint.
Tears ceaselessly stream from my eyes, and as they
Hit the ground, it begins to crack.
The ground opened and with all the powers of the earth,
Swallowed my faces.
It swallowed the pain with every tear that fell.
Eloquently closing, like the leather bindings of
Divinely inspired prose,
The ground bid me good day, and I to it.
After all, how often does one actually befriend Mother Nature?
A distantly familiar sensation brushes across my visage.
I recognize the warmth of the sun immediately,
But am surprised by the illuminated
Coat of wool.
So suddenly and brilliantly white…
41 Stacey Phillips
is a Journalism major at
NEMCC in Booneville. She
is a 2006 graduate of Kossuth
High School. She writes poetry based on
emotions of every sort. She is our class
fashionista! She enjoys singing, shopping,
Romantic film, and a diverse variety of
music. Her dream is to one day work in
Fashion, Print Journalism.
42
An Unforgotten LOVE
Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like if you were here—
to protect me and tell me you love me.
Sometimes I dream about you—
What I remember that is.
I was so small when you left me—
no more than three little fingers old,
Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to have a big brother again.
I wonder what you’re doing right now—
Do you miss me?
I wish you could’ve been here to watch me grow up—
graduate high school—
fall in love.
Sometimes when I’m, alone I close my eyes.
What I’d give to open them and for a mere second see you standing there.
What would I say to you—
I love you?
I miss you?
I need you?
Well…
I do—
I still have the white gloves you gave me for Christmas one year…
I keep them in my treasure chest.
43 Impregnation The mere contemplation Of bitter sweet temptation Led to nothing but… Inclusive complication! The wonderful sensation Began with conversation Led to nothing but… Two bodies’ stimulation. With little moderation For physical education Led to nothing but… A lifelong obligation. There was no preparation Just a quick collaboration Led to nothing but… A man’s manipulation. A nine--month deprivation From the young girl’s ovulation. Led to nothing but… A mother’s humiliation.
44 First off, you should know that in my head, there's a greyhound station, where I send my thoughts to far off destinations. I'm just an ordinary girl with numerous questions and curiosities about the world. I enjoy drinking coffee on big sofas with my friends. My true friends mean the world to me; the ones I can spend time doing anything or nothing with, but it doesn't matter because at the end of the day, I know they're the ones I can count on. I love long car rides, having the simplest or the most complex of conversations. I love airports, I'm not sure why..but I do. I love traveling the world and discovering new places. I find it necessary to get away from the comfortably familiar as often as possible. Meeting new people is bliss. I would be lost without my music . Sometimes I find it necessary to tune the world out with my ipod. I am a strange teenager that appreciates instrumental just as much as any other music. If you happen to see me at an intersection talking to myself, please don't think I'm schizophrenic. I'm probably just singing without care. I find country music a cruel form of punishment, and try to avoid it at all costs. Theatre intrigues me, and I'm always up for a good production. Watching sappy movies in bed is my weakness, with of course the perfect date, Ben &Jerry. I tend to eat my feelings from time to time. Dancing in the rain is probably one the most liberating and favorable activities to partake in. Summer sunsets are perfection. As much as I plan, I seem to favor the spontaneous moments found in life. You should know I left my heart in New York City, and I must go find it soon. The smell of fabric softener is heavenly. Movie trailers curb my boredom. Nothing is more therapeutic than taking a long bath. Walking the streets of downtown is bliss. Playing at the park is still fun for me. Rainy days make me happy. Starry nights remind me that despite the chaos, the world can still be a beautiful place. Changing seasons bring joy to my heart. Learning new words is a fascination of mine. Painting my emotions is great release.. No matter how naive it seems, I love the belief of happy endings. ANNA K. SHADBURN
45 Uncertainty
The fog fades from the surface
And the world seems uncertain.
As I look ahead, everything appears in focus
Yet everything seems unclear.
Am I the only one to question
This life while I’m here?
To pass a bum on the street
And wonder why it’s not me.
To see news lines and picket signs
About a catastrophic war,
While knowing I’m safe behind my door.
Nothing is of certainty.
All Beliefs aside…
Though I’m searching for an answer,
I secretly hide.
Enchanting tales and charming princess,
Glass slippers and bewitching kisses.
All great stories, yet all deceitful lies.
Freedom of speech and rightful justice,
I’m searching and searching
But find none among us.
A mindless beauty queen is crowned
And gets a paid education,
While the ambitious kid in the back
Struggles with financial frustration.
Why must the innocent suffer?
Nothing is of certainty.
Promises are made just as
Promises are broken.
Love is felt and faded long before spoken.
Before you’re too old, you’re too young,
But I’m still learning this song the world has sung.
The fog settled once again
And tamed my curiosity.
In this world, we’re all the minority.
Happily ever after is only an illusion.
The only certain thing in life is uncertainty.
46 Someone Once Said
As I leap into the air,
My gentle hands grasp the handle,
My feet tantalize below,
And I try holding on for dear life…
Or perhaps something like it.
But nobody told me about the thorns
I dwindle down to the familiar grounds.
While I sat in these grounds, I remembered…
Knowledge is key and, someone once said.
So I place it in this trap door hole,
Only to realize it doesn’t open for me.
Virtue is the lyrics of the heart, someone once said.
Although I listen closely, I only hear my familiar beat.
Perseverance meets the highest challenge,
Someone once said.
So offer my hand to say hello,
Only to find I can’t reach.
Happiness is a mirror to your soul,
Someone once said.
I hold it out in desperation,
But the needle refuses to move.
I get up from these familiar grounds once more,
As I leap into the quaint air,
My gentle hands grasp the handle,
My feet tantalize below,
And I try holding on for dear life…
Or perhaps something like it.
47 Kimberly Shelton Was born January 31, 1986 in Iuka, MS. She graduated from Biggersville High School in May of 2004. She is now attending Northeast MS Community College where she is working to achieve an Associate of Arts Degree in English Education. She has traveled extensively in her young life. In 2005, she traveled to England, Ireland, Wales, and The Netherlands. In 2006, she journeyed to France, Italy, Monaco, and the Vatican. This year will mark her third trip overseas as she leaves for Scotland in June. Her writing is very reflective of her experiences abroad. Many of her poems were written while traveling and seemingly echo the poet’s thoughts on particular places that she has visited. While her restless spirit takes her to many places, she always returns to Mississippi. She currently resides in Rienzi.
48 The Awakening
It is to you I once again return—kneeling before your sacred shrine
I gaze upon the form of your likeness
You who taught me the way of Peace—Tolerance—Tranquility
Open your granite eyes and see that the world is not as you left it
All around there is Death—Suffering –Pain
I feel it worsens with each day
What say you—great Buddha?
I am greeted by silence
I ponder this for a moment and then I understand
I—like the statue—must remain unshaken
If I am to survive
49
Ode to the Sad Waters of Venice
The waters of Venice seem sad to me
As I gaze upon its narrow canals
Relaxing in my gondola, I ponder its past
Many tragic souls bid a farewell to their beautiful city
As they crossed the bridge of sighs
Casanova alone avoided this fate when he made his daring escape
Oh, Venice with such a history shrouded in sorrow
It is no wonder you are sad.
50 BOBBY SMITH =
Bobby J. Smith was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and
grew up on the road with his uncle, selling recliners
and sofas in parking lots from one side of the country
to the other. In high-school, instead of studying, he
played music and enjoyed life, and after graduating, he
wandered the country for a few years, playing with
bands in Beulah, Colorado, St. Augustine, Florida, and
Corpus Christi, Texas. He is currently pursuing a
degree in journalism, writing poetry, and writing his
first novel. He lives in Osborne Creek, Mississippi, and
spends his free time working in his yard.
The Toe (an excerpt)
In the northern part of Mississippi, near the quiet sanctuary of the community college town
of Crockettsville, a young man named Bucky paid a visit to one of the local liquor stores. It was on a
Monday, shortly before lunchtime, and for the young man named Bucky, whose father was a generally
respected city alderman, the world was a splendid place. Bucky was a drunkard, it is true, but because
of the magnificent affability that glowed through his every word and action, no one wished ill will on
Bucky, the alderman‛s son. The bell on the door produced a satisfying “ding!” as he stepped inside the
liquor store and greeted the clerk like an old friend.
“Good afternoon, clerk!” Bucky warmly intoned with an expression of pure glee plastered
across his ruddy, young cheeks. A happier customer was not to be found in all the land!
“Good afternoon, my friend Bucky!” the clerk said, looking up from his ledger. He placed his
pencil behind his ear and directed all of his attention at this young customer. How pleasant it was to
deal with these young customers, the clerk thought. The old ones were usually not right in the head.
BUCKY’s Father=
51 “Lovely day for tippling, if I do say so myself! Looking for anything in particular today,
Bucky?” he asked.
“No, clerk. Be as you were. I think I shall peruse your selection for a bit,” Bucky replied.
And peruse he did. This store was the finest place to buy liquor in the entire county, probably
the entire state. Six aisles, flanked on both sides by four-foot high shelves full of all the liquor he
could imagine surrounded Bucky. “Look at all this liquor!” Bucky marveled. His eyes danced across row
after row, bottle after bottle. There were white wines, red wines, wines with names like Windy City
and Red Rose; there were bourbons, scotches, brandies, tequilas, and cognacs; all around him was every
conceivable brand of liquor. There were whiskies from Kentucky and Tennessee, Russian vodkas, Italian
wines, and black colored liquors from Holland. Bucky always enjoyed browsing through the liquor store, even
more-so because of how small it made him feel. Life is so short, he would think, and there are so many
drinks to drink. I only hope I live long enough to try every last one of them. Just one swallow of every one
of them. That is my goal, he decided, and picked up a bottle of Puerto Rican rum (which he had not yet
tried), brought it to the counter, and pulled out his tri-fold wallet.
“Excellent choice, Bucky, absolutely excellent!” the clerk beamed. The clerk placed the bottle in a
brown paper bag. With a grateful nod of his head, Bucky paid, and they parted just as amicably as they had
met.
Bucky exited the store with the door-bell producing a “ding!” that was possibly even more satisfying
than the first, got in his red Pontiac Sunfire, and pointed the spiffy little car toward his home. He whistled
a merry tune and waved at everyone he met on the road. Bucky was truly happy with himself. As the sun
warmed his ruddy, young cheeks, he wondered if life could ever be more wonderful than it was on this day.
“Yes, it can!” he said to himself, pulling the bottle of rum out of its brown paper bag. “I am not ashamed of
you, bottle, and I refuse to hide you any longer!” he said, snickering at his own cordial wit. Bucky read and
reread the bottle‛s label, enjoying the refreshing look of its contents, wondering if the coastal waters
of Puerto Rico were as clear as the rum, and marveling at the distance it had traveled to find
him on this fine day. It was then, while smiling at his own pleasant station in life, that Bucky
noticed something strange about the rum. There was an object in the bottom of the bottle! He shook the
bottle, and as the object floated up and turned about and he could clearly see its dimensions, he realized it
was…a toe! Bucky turned a shade of grey that only undertakers are familiar with. His jaws clenched tight
and his hands began to shake. “Is this the DT‛s?” he wondered aloud. He had trouble keeping the
Pontiac between the lines. It was not a toe like you would expect, but a toe so pronounced, so
undeniably infused with toe-ness, that Bucky could not help staring at it. It was a disgusting sight, and
it bothered him badly, but still Bucky stared at it. A toe! What on earth was a toe doing in a bottle of
rum? Bucky gazed intently at the toe, not knowing exactly what to do. Perhaps, he thought, this was
some kind of Puerto Rican tradition; the Mexicans are known to put worms in their tequila, so wouldn‛t
it be entirely possible that Puerto Ricans put toes in their rum? Bucky was studying the toe and
52 gradually regaining his composure when he saw the toe moving. At first it was just a shudder, but
steadily increasing in its vibrations, it became a manic twitch. Then the toe began bouncing around the
bottle, with a flop and a flourish, seemingly in a musical pattern, and with alarming force. Crazed by
fear and confusion, Bucky hastily rolled down his window and tossed out the bottle which, without
delay, struck the ditch-bank and shattered into a million pieces.
Just then, Bucky heard the wail of sirens. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the
police cruiser swiftly approaching. Bucky let out a wretched moan and pulled the Pontiac over onto the
side of the road. By the time the police officer had reached Bucky‛s window, Bucky had his driver‛s
license and insurance card in his trembling hands.
“I swear to God, officer, it was an accident!” he blurted out.
“Oh? Ahem. I did not know that it was you. I am sorry for the inconvenience. Put your cards
up. I need no identification from Bucky, the alderman‛s son. Go along now, and give your father my best
regards,” the police officer said, who Bucky recognized as Jimmy Miller, a man often seen around his
father‛s dinner table.
“It is done, Jimmy Miller. Kindest gratitude,” Bucky said, pulling the automatic transmission
down in overdrive.
The police officer turned on his heels and started back toward his cruiser. Bucky thought he
was gone until he heard him say: “Just one more thing.”
Bucky looked back in the officer‛s direction. He thought he saw some movement in the grass
near where the bottle had landed, but he wasn‛t sure. With his soul once again filled with pure terror,
he looked at the officer and answered, very quietly, “Yes?”
“What would your old papa say if he knew you were a litter-bug?”
“I know not, good officer, nor do I care to find out.”
“Get out of here, Bucky. And God be with you,” the officer said.
“And you as well, Jimmy Miller.”
Bucky slowly accelerated off and forced himself to not look at the spot in the grass where he
knew the toe must be dancing around. “I am through with strong drink,” he said to himself. “It is
making me crazy, and I will never drink again.”
And he never did.
53 PLEA
i keep a foot in my mouth
an’ blinders on my eyes
an’ trip over my laces
get choked by my tie
end up walkin’ backwards
an’ hearin’ the smells
an’ ringin’ the time
an’ telling them bells
but that’s just the me
that i had to be
but if i had to pick,
i’d say easily
i’d change spots
with no one i know
cuz what’s in my head
and where i’m gonna go
but that’s not sayin’
i got all i need
there’s somethin’ that’s missin’
yeah, absent…indeed
and the reason it’s missin’
i guess i ain’t tried
as hard as i could
to have you by my side
cuz sometimes i just
don’t know what to say
if it’ll bring you to me
or push you away
an’ to push you away
would be a big old bad sin
when i could say nothin’
an’ still be yr. friend
an’ to not take that chance
is the easy way out
inaction’s the mark
of a coward, no doubt
but not sayin’ nothin’
means i’d never know
if we had a chance
to give it a go
but i gotta say somethin’
cuz time’s gettin’ shy
with school ‘bout over
‘an the summer close by
an’ i still don’t know
if it’ll have any effect
just what you’ll say
i don’t know what to expect,
but I gotta say somethin’
cuz i think you’re just grand
God holdin’ yr. pen
in yr. skinny little hand
an’ writin’ them words
that nobody’s sayin’
most the time fightin’
and part-time just playin’
cuz the window of you
that you let me see
shows somebody fresh
an’ somebody free
an’ somebody not
tied up with the rest
somebody i admire
very much, i confess
but words can’t catch
just where i’m at
cause words are just symbols
an’ mostly fall flat
but i’d bring you the sun
in an orange juice glass
an’ write you some lines
so when present is past
folks’ll look back at us
an’ say with a grin
that there were two people who
played life to win
it’s all in yr. hands
an’ it’s all up to you
an’ you ain’t gotta do nothin’
if you don’t want to
but whatever you do
an’ whatever you find
just keep the stars
in the back of your mind
if they sparkle forever
above the black trees
my stars are your stars
if you want them to be.
54 ERICA TABLES
Erica is a graduating sophomore of
Northeast Mississippi Community
College, majoring in English Education.
Erica’s writing is from the heart
and has a very prose-narrative
style. She currently resides in
Potts Camp, mS.
55 You I don’t know what it is about you That gets me Has me going crazy Making me smile While Driving me wild. Your smile pierces my soul each time (Your eyes so beautiful) Every time you throw your dreads My mind starts Running and racing In places that to the unmarried Are forbidden, But that doesn’t stop the thoughts from flowing. Each Night As I lie in bed I envision and then imagine How it would be if you were in bed with me, With you as my Husband And me as your wife. I don’t really know when or where I started feeling these things for you I ask myself that question everyday And still I have no answer But I know those feelings are still there.
56 Balcony
On the second floor of the apartment complex
Standing on the balcony as rain falls
With thunder and lightening occurring from time to time
Leaning over the balcony
I reach out to catch rain drops as they fall
Over behind me you move as a precautionary measure and for security
After our balcony rendezvous
Walking back inside
We take a seat on the couch
Shirts that you have been designing are laid across the couch to the left
A kung fu movie is playing across the television
As the words in English
Dance across the bottom of the screen
Sitting in deep thought and wrapped in enjoyment
Looking over at you
Smiling and displaying a look of pure happiness
And for a second my mind slips
To what is seen behind you
The doors that lead to the balcony
And again I am thrown back to what we shared only minutes ago.
57
Daniel Taylor is a
Mississippi Community
Communications with an
He is currently
investigative
attending Northeast,
attending either
or Florida State.
art of writing since
young. Reading came
therefore the joy of
follow. He is a
High School where an
every year in honor of
Thomas Hal Phillips.
almost every year
for most of those
first in short story
poetry. His dream is
freshman at Northeast
College. His major is
emphasis in journalism.
interested in
journalism. After
Daniel is planning on
University of Memphis
Daniel has enjoyed the
he was extremely
at an early age, and
writing was soon to
graduate of Kossuth
annual festival is held
the Mississippi author
Daniel has entered
since junior high and
latter years placed
and continuously in
to write for a living.
Tell Me
Read my work and work my reading
Kneed it out like simple breathing
Read my work and tell me true
For then my friends I’ll tell to you
Pass your judgments and make them harsh
Pull my words from their murky marsh
Critique my words and help me see
A clearer light of what they can be
I’m frantic now and I’m writing fast
But tell me do you think my thoughts are too vast
Please stay focused and Ill try to stay clear
For the point I’m conveying I want you to hear
I need your help and I hear your advice
Be not afraid if your words are “un-nice”
I’ll take the positive and the negative too
Just tell me your thoughts and please make them true.
58 Red
A girl, she's blonde, very blonde. shoulder length needle straight hair, she's staring into
a red mirror, white sweater, turtleneck sweater. She adjusts her hair, inspects her
face. She squints her eyes, traced with a dark eye liner, slams the comb on the vanity
Vain
She is very vain.
The walls are red, not the mirror, they reflect into it. Nothing is in the room except the
walls, mirror, girl, vanity, and her comb.
Her nose bleeds, she panics; immediately begins dabbing it with tissue. It runs. She
turns the faucet on in a rage. The water gathers within her cupped hands. Her face
plunges as she scrubs.
She lifts her face, the mascara and eye liner is running down. Her eyes now sag and
she looks very sad. Her expression is gaunt and her eyes reek of pain. The fake eyelash
is dangling at the corner of her left eye.
She cries
Her pain fills the room
She takes her razor from the vanity
59
It glistens in the light reflecting from the mirror onto the wall
She shakes
She bleeds
The blood runs down her arm
The razor drops
She falls to the floor
She hits hard and her skull lands with a cracking thud.
She screams
her fingernails bend backward as the claws the tile floor
They break
She cries
Her eyes dance rapidly searching the room
There is no help, no correction, there is no second chance, no redo
Blood spills across and stains the pure white tile of the floor
She rolls and blood now streaks across her white turtleneck as well
The light glows white but soon starts dimming
Red there is so much red
The room fades to black swallowed in a deep darkness
Her weak eyes blink twice before falling to a stop
In the prime of the moment her body looses all function and her arm falls slamming
into the bottom of the vanity
The comb falls
It lands in the direct center of her stomach
resting on the blood stained white turtleneck
In the last moments with her weakened voice she manages to choke out in a desperate
whisper "I’m sorry"
Her head turns and rests as a final tear slides out her eye
SHE DIES
60
Born in a hospital like many
others, Alan White’s
distinctiveness came about
by accident. While
frolicking in the woods, he
was attacked by a,
presumably, man eating
insect. The resulting fall
from nature’s swingset
permanently damaged his
brain. It was then that he
developed affinity for
crayons. Over time, his
tastes became more
distinct, only accepting
Crayola. Currently, he
counts the days until
Babylonian captivity will
end, and he will be allowed
to be free. He enjoys
Pokeman and being a general jerk to the ignorant; because, unlike the
unintelligent, the ignorant do not live up to their potential—Alan White
61 To the Emotion I’m Told is called Love When I was in High school and love struck I became, shuffling my feet was modus Operendi. Of course I had no luck In the realm of women; Like a lotus Flower, on its leafy platform, alone, Sinking, when he, frog of rejection, sat Upon me. On the bottom, I would bemoan Whatever gods conspired. In their faces spat I; demon gods’ decree I shall defy. Unlike others, I’m not resigned to fate, For those who do shall wrinkle and die. So in finding my love, I cannot wait, To overcome the demon god of fear, So the world for me and my love will cheer. I realized the truth, upon reflection, What I had once considered to be love, Was really lust, not dereliction. This new feeling, of all others above. In my shame of admiration of flesh, A New opportunity now beckons, And in this new emotion, I refresh. To nothing shall this woman come second. I’ve always said love is irrational. But in thruthiness, I know it is right. T'is my sword in the battle then Final, Or in the darkness, lantern of great light. Yet I find my words’ description lacking, For love, my endeavor shan’t be slacking. T'was then I realized that the demon gods, And my ultimate fate did not conspire. So defeating fate would put me at odds, With that woman whom I so did admire. Any plans and preparation would doom My goal into dust. Que’ sera’, sera’, Else hate shall bury love in earthly tomb, She provoked by my sudden chimera. So fate became an unlikely ally, Only because if course I tried to change, Then of my true intentions would belie, Since my perfect planning would come off strange. Paradoxically, plans will only hurt, My plans for true love, but only subvert. It was soon I realized a terrible Truth—My time for action was limited. Compounding my failure, unbearable; If to my love, I should be committed, I would need to pass the test of Great Fate, She whom will test all for their worthiness, If I’m to win love before it’s too late. Though she’s my ally, she’s a cruel mistress. It was then I realized, love begat fear, So this would be a test on many fronts— Fail and fatally be pierced by love’s spear. Though all these things my stern resolve confronts, Success, I see, as the only proper Result, the other my hope would damper.
62 Prologue
Space Epic One: Detectives pf the Stars
I find myself in a dense, covered, route,
As I often do late with midnight moon.
T’is a path so surreal I’m filled with doubt
Its sun still shines as it does at high noon.
And even though I tread this path before,
Each time I find my path fresh and renewed,
With new paths and new branches to explore,
It was soon I realized the path was skewed.
While I initially thought it was I,
The changes of the path, my own device.
I credited this change to the muse, but why?
The conclusion I reached, I’ll be concise:
My muse, or what I had assumed was she,
Was data transmitted temporally.
Weaving through space and time, until it found
An appropriate host of mental might;
To a brain which was deemed mentally sound
And would do with the message what was right.
What was once underdeveloped pathway
exchanged.
Soon began growing and developing,
I saw, midnight day by midnight day.
Deeper in my mind I was traveling;
Around my mind the path crookedly wound,
And while this path was densely overgrown,
Sins of future tampering could be found.
This richly endowed world I called my own
Had been shanghaied by future human kind
In order to prepare the public mind.
What once was dense path, hallway it became.
Those, in dreams, with whom I regularly
Walked were replaced by those who knew not me.
So I talked to them and asked many for name.
Grudgingly they began to speak their mind.
Their story I reconstructed slowly,
Subjects ranged from trivial to holy.
When I awoke, I wrote what they opined.
What I had written, before I knew it,
A story of future man, mortal still.
The secrets of mankind left to my wit,
To my devices, for good or for ill.
And for years I contemplated my fate,
Considering if this story I should relate.
Therefore to my fate, I myself resigned,
It seemed to ignore it would be, to me
As good as gun induced lobotomy.
What succeeds these words relates to mankind.
When reading what follows, please keep in mind
My words tell of humanity’s future
And human fallacies as that suture
Our species with that of animal kind.
As my words, note the future is written,
And the events that my story shall entail
Thus changing it would be to no avail,
And one who tries to would only be bitten.
The words that follow have remained unchanged
And the meaning thereof has not been
I think, in death, I shall be relative.
Difficult, as it is, to prepare for,
This, most crucial of all, prerogative,
That, for two hundred centuries or more,
Must remain applicable to all man.
I can think of no better way for it
To remain on public mind, other than
On pages that follow, the truth submit.
Although this, my effort, may be futile,
I hope it services humanity
Though human kind will, for years, be brutal,
Absorbed in its collective vanity.
But what these dreams revealed unto my mind,
Gives hope to the future of all mankind.
63 * Friends *
Of THE
CLASS… 64 AMANDA BURCHAM GARVIN, Creative Writing Instructor
For Derek, my life’s muse
Finale of Peace
We are the star‐crossed lovers,
Reincarnated to second chance;
wandering through centuries,
we finally found our Mantua.
We two players
present a passionate plot
where the eternal drama
resides in a warless sanctuary
of interwoven souls.
This palace of truth
procures me to believe:
Knew I not this world
to merely be an earth,
your love would have convinced me
it was Heaven.
Transcendental Moment
The labors of our days are noticed,
We make the common, uncommon.
Thieves of opportunity,
You and I, we capture a moment.
As you walk past my cooking of dinner
On your way to empty the trash,
Our bodies purposely brush...
We steal seconds for our own:
For an instant, we surrender,
Rendezvous to a remote garden
Where kisses venture to shy places
And nothing remains ordinary.
I will our holiday to hold;
Yet, the tempo of obligation breaks trance
As approaching sounds of tender feet
Beckon us back to our kitchen.
65 My Plea by Hayley Horton, English Ed. Major, NEMCC You never listen to my silent scream The scream so deafening My silent plea The plea to take me away You look over me each time Never seeing I'm always in the haze The haze that someday will dissolve Dissipate into nothingness That day you will see me The day it is too late Too late to save who I was Too late to save who I was to be Too late to take me away The day you hear my deafening scream My silent plea I will be gone.
66 EMORY D. JONES, MPS President and Guest Author
PASSING FANCY
(A Pirouette)
I love the summer best
When the days stretch out like
Sunbathers tanned golden
Where water’s a silver sheen;
Nature wears bright colors.
Nature wears bright colors
In the warm autumn sun
Of mellow orange and red—
Maples shiver silver,
And goose arrows point south.
What Color Is the Wind?
It is green in the Spring
When the breeze rustles trees
And the leaves dance a quadrille
In the warmth of sun.
It is yellow when the pollen blows
Bringing the stuffy nose
And sneezes—
But laying a golden
Patina over all of nature.
It is brown with the twirl of maple flyers
Fluttering through the air
Like tiny helicopters.
It is a clear as water
Kissing your cheek
When you lean over a brook
To drink.
67 DIAMONDS by Lynn Jones, NEMCC Language Arts Instructor
“I just want to treat people right!”
I caught you!
“If I could stop one heart from breaking, I would,
and my brother would not be hurt anymore.”
I caught you!
“I know you won’t tell me, but what’s wrong? Can I help?”
I caught you!
“But I just love to see her laugh like that,”
I caught you!
“Everyone deserves a second chance!”
I caught you!
Risking a lecture
or worse
for attempting to coax
a smile and a laugh
from a heart that is broken because
you cannot stand
to see anyone hurting
without trying to alleviate the pain.
I caught you
Offering a listening ear,
showing real concern,
closing ranks around a wounded soul
and anointing it with healing balm
of your sympathy
I caught you!
Some may declare,
“How do you stand those Jr. High Kids!”
“I’d pull my hair out and go crazy!”
“They have such an attitude at that age!”
Well, yes,
I must admit it:
Some days I do feel like running away,
screaming, into the night
never to return.
But…then I remember.
I caught you!
I caught a glimpse of your heart just now,
A glint of your soul.
Oh, you may joke
and carry on
and try to be
Tough
and impress everyone around you with
Your “bad self,” and your “I don’t care” attitude,
But that won’t work on me anymore.
Yes, sometimes it does put me off,
Frustrate me,
and make me question
if the naysayers aren’t right
you “junior high kids!”
But you cannot now,
nor will you ever be,
able to impress me with it,
nor will the naysayers ever be able
to convince me that you are
68 “bad kids.”
because
I caught your secret.
I’ve seen you as vulnerable as Johnny,
As gallant as Dallas,
As tough and strong, sensitive and caring
as Ponyboy, Soda, and Darry.
I’ve seen you nurture hope through hard times
like Anne,
And become indignant at perceived injustice
like Miep and Mr. Kraler.
I’ve caught your sparkle.
When I look at you,
I have caught the diamond of your becoming.
No, you can no longer hide it,
so don’t even try.
Little by little,
character emerges,
brilliant and beautiful each day.
Oh my, yes!
You do still have rough edges!
And yes,
I have played “Mama”
and meddled
sometimes said too much,
sometimes not enough.
But please forgive me.
I caught your diamond.
I feel I must polish it—
Somehow make it shine more brightly.
While I may never learn just how your
Story will turn out,
How big and bright and beautiful
your diamond
character will shine one day,
I will always remember that
I caught you!
I caught a flash of your diamond!
I must say thank you
for letting me see it
emerging.
Thank you
for giving me the opportunity to polish it a little
with my
words and books,
admonishments, and warnings,
lectures, and laughter
and prayers—
most of all prayers.
I do hope that you will bring it back to me one day.
It would do my heart good
to glimpse it again.
And to tell you that
While I was polishing
your diamond,
You were polishing mine.
69 JOSH MARTIN: English Education major, NEMCC
building a card house (just to knock it down)
the most selfish letter in the alphabet is "I"
deleterious doppleganger you must die
desperately latching onto innocent words
like trying to institutionalize free‐flying birds
watching bricks and chicks faulter and fall
consuming (with gluttony) Tellus' putrid gall
imagine new worlds, and in turn create life
misunderstood messages cut with a dull maiden's knife
his muse now faints, hollow, barren, and stark
dreams so profound, yet the season but a quark
"Death is a debt which all of us must pay."
Thanatos, do your worst; leave not a cache
suffer not sight, touch, smell, or taste
permit fire give way to ubiquitous chaste
that hearts may advance to delayed destiny
and divine harmonious bliss in their eternal quay
One Question, One Ring
Don’t let them fool you.
The sky’s just the sea
Don’t you remember?
The stars are bright diamonds
Escaped from sunken pirate ships
And the clouds, glorious islands
Peacefully, coaxing our minds.
The birds know their niche
Gracefully gliding about waves;
Storms and turbulence arise
When two colossal words collide
Would you sail off into the sky with me— Sail forward eternally on my majestic kite?
70 Murder of Earth
by Savanna Walker, NEMCC Writer
Green men twirl with bells on their toes
Singing lark songs of malicious intent
In a devilish rain dance that never ends.
When snow falls in Virginia
An angel gets his wings
And flies to Tucson on a big jet plane.
He soars over pencil forests
That smell like yellow dust
As they draw gray clouds in the stars.
But stars only shine when erasers touch the sky
And they don't so Ursa Minor's dead.
Children sing "Leaden, Leaden, poor dead bear,
How did you get way up there?"
Their mother's cry because they don't know the words
And cannot sing along.
71