A Book of Poems

CONTENTS

WaitingforForeverby Audrey Boneck 2

Naturalby Ebony Casperson 3

GreenBalloonby Cory Collard 4

TheSnowmanby Tertsa Dyer 5

TheSnowManby Tertsa Dyer 5

CitybeforeSunriseby Tristen Fagg 6

CarShowby Kayla Koistinen 7

(My)Wedding,Revisitedby Shannon McLean 8

Camelsby Brandi Nielsen 9

CanaryintheCoalMineby Raelyn Perezr 10

SpringCanyon by Raelyn Perezr 10

Homeby Anna Preston 11

Yourvoiceonatapeby Maariya Rhode 12

ChromaticCatastropheby Alissa Spendlove 13

BorrowsDuckCo.by Audrey Faye Stephenson 14

Specters by Wes Van de Water 15

PlayingPoker by Crystal Vernon 16

AStudyinContradictionsby Violet Wager 17

2//A

ud

reyB

on

eck//

Waiting for Forever

1

Bloody, but still beating,chained to his jeweledpocket watch,a slave to his time,pressed inside cold metalwith only the soulless ticking for company.Minutes, hours, days?Old Father Timehisses in her ear with breathlike rotting onions,mocks her with his hands while she stays, waiting for the moment thattwo different ticks align, and hand by handtogether, stop time.

2

Trapped behind dusty doorsor behind windows of rusting glass, where I am left putrid like a carcasswhere flies and wormsgather inside of me.Father Time with obsidian eyes,cackles from an abyssBut with my battered hands,I etch a hole, through ironthrough wood,through glass, through soul,and leave bloody fingerprints—rich grimy stains on memories—and through a small earthy holecrawl on bruised purple knees,leaving time rotting behind me,and I will crawluntil I can fly.

The house, shut up like a pocket watch, those tight hearts breathing inside—Rita Dove, Thomas and Beulah

3//

Eb

on

yC

asp

ers

on

//

Why is it so natural to live the life I’ve been givenwith the milk chocolate skin that wraps around my tall and fragile body, and the kinked up curlsthat need constant burning,knowing and expectingwithout any sign of failure,to be judged in and out for the same out-of-control black hairthat covers my head –just like anyone walkingdown the barren street with hair follicles –or that same brown skin that hides the same strong muscles, pink and red organs, and white and calcium filled bonesjust like everybody else living in the rest of the world?

Natural

4//C

ory

Co

llard

//

Green Balloon

Through the closed window I can heartheir laughter, high-pitched and distortedby the distance. Looking down I can see them stumble by:The girl is taller, curls of young hairneglected in the wind. The boymight look up and see my shape at the window,but the sun’s reflection would hurt his eyes,and he would look away. He has a green balloon tied to his left wrist.The balloon should be red, shouldn’t it?As the boy and the girl pass out of sightI am struck not by the beauty of youthor the death of innocence, but by a greenballoon, and how lonely we will all be.

5//

Te

rtsa

Dye

r//

The Snowman

ride joy until/it cracks like an egg,/make sorrow/seethe and whisper.—Rita Dove, Thomas and Beulah

1

The children are wading through toysin a room devoted to their existencewhen their father returns from work,furious. Neither knows what work is,though both know what it does to Dad.He dives in before they can prepare,starts kicking piles of their possessionsand splashing dolls’ faces into the wall.They apologize, rush to gather favorites,float their necks toward the floor and cry.Mom hears from downstairs—can’t win,doesn’t try. She adds another fifty centsto the jar labeled “Vacation” in the closet.In her head the label reads “Escape.”

2

Tremulous hands, benumbed inside thin gloves,jaded by the crescendo of creation.Their sculpture: a man, short in stature, and portly.Fashioned in the aftermath of a fifth of whiskeyand disemboweled clouds. His carrot nose is crooked. Hairless, handicapped,this man is without equal, without friend.So thaw those frozen hands and pour him another shot.He is alone and dying at the whim of the weather.

The Snow Man

6//T

risten

Fag

g//

Geriatrics and night owls workthe levers of the slot machines.Cherries, coins, women, diamonds – an endless stream of desirescycling and spiralingin their tired, glazed eyes.Stale smoke and endorphin-pumping musicstroll with me through the barren halls of the casino.Released from the pleasure prison,I fill my lungs with handfuls of warm air.Summer breezes taunt and fail,disappointing my sweaty kneesand sticky neck, in desperate needof the chills that should follow the night.

The casino below my sandals,beneath layers of parking lot and fancy carpetsis the only home for insomniacs and retirees for miles.Standing high above the skyline of trees and rooftops,my neighborhood,I see the other homes in the distance,the kind that houses the restless and inconsolable.Their bright, flashing lights, lined up in an orderly row,an approaching army, hungry for the moneyand attention of visitors and locals alike.

I wish I could shiver, hold my elbows and feel the goosebumps under my skin.Sweat collecting on the back of my neckis much less romantic than a cold sunrise.I am waiting for the coward sunto show his yellow face.A city that never sleeps?No, just a big little town that dozes fitfully.I catch it snoozing, sporadic thoughts leaking through the cognition barrierseeping into the subconscious realm.Tiny cars, lazily putting along the tired streets,scary roads calmed by nightlights,their glow falling from tall poles every quarter mile.

City before Sunrise

7//

Kayla

Ko

isti

ne

n/

/Car Show

A family outing on a Saturday morning,piling into the leather seats,laughing while sliding acrossat the squeaks and groans.Turn on the stereo, listen to the special C.D.s with something for everyone—a little rock, some metal,even a country song or two.“Don’t twitch, Mom.”The car fishtails, leaving the empty parking lot. Drive through town, engine rumbling loudly—how the V8 sounds sweet to the ear.There are others with engines much louder—feel the vibrations in the air crush your chest. That’s a fast car.“Too fast,” Dad says.Park the car in the deserted corner.Keep it safe from clumsy hands with wide swinging doors.Feel the sun on your face—it heats up the skin.The warmest weather since last summer. Walk hand in hand and look at the fancy paint jobs. Some we scoff at while we approve of others. Cars from all years, all types. New or Classic.Restored or Rusted.Stock or after market. We glance at them all, but search for our favorite—The Mustang.Take special care in admiring these cars. It’s important to notice the interioror the exterior designs.“Not my taste, I say to some thingsAnd, “I want it!” to others. A day at the car showwith lunch and a smooth drive home,laughing and talking aboutour favorite spectaclesturning corner after corner.

8//S

han

no

nM

cL

ean

//

(My) Wedding, Revisited

Now he’s raised a mast/and tied himself to it/with rags…—Rita Dove, Thomas and Beulah

The extended groan of the belching bagpipeslurches into a somber rendition of “Scotland the Brave.”

I can’t breathe in this corset.

Instead of one majestic tree growing up theside of the marzipan, there are caterpillar branchesthrown by a baker’s breeze willy-nilly everywhere.

I can’t breathe in this.

Relegated to the back of the line, the evil glimmerof the chandelier is a tempting escape route—wild Jane swinging like Cheetah in a princess costume.

I can’t breathe in.

Slippery flip flops and I’m almost on my face, in his face,laughing at the bee bumbling in and out of the rhododendrons,blissfully unaware it was the daisies who started it all.

I can’t breathe.

Waterfall slashes the air, violent symbols heraldinga disaster—“Would you like a piece of gum?”

I can’t.

Empty white wicker chairs absorb the words spoken.

I.

9//

Bra

nd

iN

iels

en

//

Camels

I wonder aloud about Camels:What are they like? Do you have any?I am told a story about some twenty five camelsthat poked their heads through the windowof their master’s car, not knowingtheir ownership had changed.I had only seen a camel onceat a fair, trotting children arounda corral on its back, an exotic,intimidating animal.I ask if they are dangerous.They are.He tells me that you must take precautionswhen you kill them.Kill them? What for?He tells me that they can be eaten;they taste like beef and mutton.He finds a video to show me whatthe process is like.A Camel moans, knees in sand,its legs roped together.A man pulls its bound headaround to its flank, and after a moment,draws a short blade and plunges it intothe animals neck.It screams.He withdraws and plunges it again and again.I have to try not to laugh and cry at once:The blood sprays out like a scene from Sweeny Todd.The Camel is dead, but the man thrashesthe knife until the head comes off, leaving a crimson stump.I ask quietly why the man didn’t just shoot the camel.“It’s not our way.”

10//R

ae

lyn

Pe

rezr//

The gloved hand gently slides the skeleton keyinto the iron ribs,clicking the lock out of place. He peers inside the cage, shining his headlighton the small yellow feathers,and the silent, peach beak.

Carbon Monoxide, whispers the headache,stomping on his eyes. The miner gently reaches in the skeletal cage,cupping his tiny friend in his overly large gloves,looking at the small, golden chestno longer vibrating songs of life through the dark corridors.

He slumps down, thick sleep shutting his eyes. His mining helmet clunks against the wall.Soot settles over the resting bodies,covering his brown coat and pick with a fine layer.The black dust smothers the sunflower- yellow canary cradled against his chest.

Canary in the Coal Mine

A canary dips and rises,through the green and brown canyon.Brown, shattered beer glass and burnt matches for jointslitter the mouth of the Storrs Mine,hidden within Spring Canyon.

The bird sings the freedom from the mines,her song filling the ghost townwith splotches of yellow life,reaching the long forgotten mythsthat forever haunt the local teenagers,wandering on a dare through the broken buildingsand abandoned corridors.

Spring Canyon

11//

An

naP

rest

on

//

Home

Since I was born, I have been scattered all across3 countries, 5 states, 11 cities, and 25 houses— the places I’ve called home.

It’s been twenty three years since it started and my heart can’t make sense of it. I don’t know how teach it to summon back the missing parts.

Home is where the heart is, so somebody said.They must mean the beating heart, the muscle in my chest heart

that pumps the blood and makes the oxygen carry meonward and upward into the starts of new days heart.

They couldn’t mean, shouldn’t mean the other heart.The heart that burns and loves and breaks and breaks and bursts and beams.The heart with all the stiches and the patches and the bits all held together with the super-glue of new experiences. The warm and gooey center of all

things pink and fluffy heart? Not that one.

If they meant my heart, they must have meant the heart that’s splitinto 3x5x11x25 sized pieces that don’t fit back together

quite like they are supposed to. The bits that have gone missing—the links to the past parts of who I am.

12//M

aariy

aR

ho

de

s//

Your voice on a tape

Your voice on a tape,tells me stories, poems, and rhymes.Me playing dress up and dolls,when I was little, then later,when I tried on your wedding dress and it fit—Grandpa, who showed little emotion and spoke fewer words,told me I was beautiful. I blushed.I thought you were old then—ancient and wise.But now, I see better.Cool hands like parchment, even coolerand fadedand thinner.Gossamer hair—you still have the same complaints about it—but they sound like a record repeating, skipping.It’s not fair I found you again too late,something precious rediscoveredjust when I was leaving. And when I return,every time, a little more gone.Like a pebble on a beach.

13//

Aliss

aS

pe

nd

love

//

Chromatic Catastrophe

His fingers were just as flashy as his black fedora. Every note jumped and sparkedin perfect off-beat,like a sick heart.

Nails cut short still made thatclickity-clack against the keys. Precision of perfectly placed fingerscouldn’t hide the click of adorned digits,though his music didn’t suffer for it.

The sweat of a performance wasn’ttoo much to take. It was just too much to fake. One of those noisy nailsfumbled across the notes.

Silence of failurecould only be drowned out bypoundingas hard as possibleon those keys that sounded so beautiful

And so frustrating.

14//A

ud

reyF

aye

Ste

ph

en

son

//

BorrowsDuck Co.

Opens what is shutSecrets kept within

Skeleton in locked closetRusted skin

Cold metal tombPunished child’s axe

Deadbolt, combinationIron that yields gold

The inevitably lost keeperClick and clank

Chains the man to his plowEats the sinner’s days whole

Death’s friend but the executioner’s enemyWorse than death, saves lives

Justice and mercy in oneTightens the chains, loosens the nooseKeeps the kept and starts the journey

BarrowsDuck Co.

15//

We

sV

an

de

Wate

r//

Specters

That is what I used to call the memories.

They lived in the shelter of the shadowswhile I slept.Slithering tendrils that strangled me in the daytime.Even ravaging the realms of my daydreams.

Your face begins to fade from my memory,The callous silhouette of you marching awaylingers in the fringes of my mind,leaving it a place of ruin.Shattered fragments of my trustthrown to the winds.

These echoes are what you left behind,All that remains of the man I once knew.Jagged shadows that lick at my heels.

They, too, are falling into memory,transforming into legend and mythuntil the day comes that theseDemons of the dawn fade into the silence.

Now they follow in your footsteps.

16//C

rysta

lVe

rno

n//

Playing Poker

I look up from my hand of cards. I’ve got a dang good run.(I say dang, because I don’t cuss around Grandma)She taught me this game when I was three,just old enough to hold my own cards.My hands are bigger now.I fan out my run on the table and grinthen I reach for the dish of candy—an ever-present entity on Grandma’s kitchen counter.She smiles, proud of me, though it was all the luck of the dealer.Little skill to be had in rummy.She lays down her run, better than mine,she’s probably had for a few turnsholding onto it so that I don’t lose.She still plays like I’m learning,though I’ve re-taught her the rules a few timeswhen she forgot themin the mess of recipes and luncheon appointments.I try to live up to what she is:a beautiful woman who overcame every trial placed in her pathand raised a beautiful family.The smile lines on her cheeksfrom a poker face, developed in the sixtieswhile raising two boisterous boys.I stand up to refresh our drinks.“You’ve always been such a good helper”“Thank you, Grandma”“You’re going to make some man very happy one day.” I try to live up to what she sees:a beautiful womancapable of conquering the world.That’s not what I see but I smile anyway—lines deepening into my own poker face.

17//

Vio

let

Wag

er

//

A Study in Contradictions

Close your eyes and hear the blue and violet tones, streaming pictures through your mind and bowing feeling after feeling across your heart— shifting with each note,a little more each variation. The sound runs away with you, free, loose, uncontrolled. Uncontrollable.

Open your eyes and see perfect poise—the elegance of black and silver placed straight and firm against the varnished spruce and maple of the wooden instruments. Every foot placed perfectly, every motion of the hand precise. Every sway of the torso a tentative freedom, punctuated by refined bursts of energy. Every note wild and effortless, produced by painful study and painstaking care.

A perfectly played rhapsody, shining more for all the times they got it wrong. A pursed brow and a shift in a seat— human nature weaving itself through an inhuman melody,the only variation in a perfect, precise, practiced, and re-practiced piece. Theme and variation. Sight and sound.Audience and performer: a study in contradictions.Six movements of a single song.

COLOPHON

This collection of poems written by students in Danielle Dubrasky’s Advanced Poetry Writing course at Southern Utah University.

Printing: DigitalTypefaces: Gotham and Mercury TextPaper: Mohawk Superfine UltrawhiteDesign: Jessica Gerlach

March 2013

In an edition of three this is