April 30, 2013

"Life's Purpose"
By Ina Kansariwala

Mind
Body
Spirit
Of those is what I have purpose
Yoga is life
It is there that I can find harmony
May it never be seen by others
Rise above over all
Here is what I live for
Spirit is like god
Whether it be there or not
Whether believed or not
Body is body
Only what you want it to be
Mind is far from infinite
A known mystery
Never to be discovered
I breathe
Breath work gives life a purpose
Reach
Close the eyes
And breath

"La determinación de vida"
By Ina Kansariwala

Mente
Cuerpo
Espíritu
Aquéllos son lo que me dan determinación
Yoga es vida
Es allí donde puedo encontrar armonía
Que nunca sea visto por otros
Subir encima todo
Aquí es por lo que vivo
Espíritu es como diós
Si está allí o no
Si creído o no
Cuerpo es cuerpo
Sólo lo que tú quieres que sea
La mente está lejos de ser infinito
Un misterio conocido
Nunca de ser descubierto
Yo respiro
Respiración le da determinación a la vida
Alcanzar
Cerrar los ojos
Y respirar

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 29, 2013

                        “What Kind of Shoe are You?”
                               By Michelle Church

      A boot shoe is what I am
            It has a direction of where it’s going
            With whom or where it does not know
            But when it happens life will flow
                  Over the stream and through the meadow
                  You won’t lead a headless shadow
                        Like a boot you will move
                        You won’t fall into a hopeless groove    
                              You will go through good & bad
                              Good will win
                              So make a stand
                                    Always go for the gold
                                    You’re so bright and bold
                                    The soul won’t be cold

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No poetry submission by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 28, 2013

“13 Ways of looking at love”

By Katelynn Bowen

Adorable

I throw the ball

And he stumbles after it.

Soft and pudgy,

Cute and cuddly

With its’ wet, black, pounding nose

Puppies make me smile

Unexpected

Long day

Hard at work

Opened the door

Him standing there

A dozen roses in his strong hand

Friendly

Mocking, shocking

No one likes me

Everybody hates me

Then she comes

And holds my hand

Fearful

Date night

Big screen

We almost kissed

But the butterflies

In my stomach

Did not agree

Mistrustful

He comes home

With the smell of her perfume

She walks to the bedroom

Not knowing what to say

She takes off through the window

To find her prince charming

Disrespectful

Walking through the school’s halls

Tripping, stumbling, people stopping

Hugs and kisses, holding hands

Not a place to show that mush affection

Respectful

Discussing, not arguing

Respected decisions

Coming to agreements

Relationship builds

Playful

Joke it up

Class clown

You hate him or you love him

Laugh so hard you cry

Abusive

Bruises, scars, teary eyes

No amount of makeup

Can hide the pain inside

Sarcastic

Plastic girl, popular

Lie to get attention

Say you love it to one person

The other, the opposite

In essence you hate the person

You just gave the compliment to look better

Withering/Dying

Work gets busy

Time consuming

I see him less and less as time rolls on

No flowers, no hugs, or kisses

It seems that our love is falling apart

Forceful

Boundaries exist, but have no limits

He grabs my hand and pulls me in

I don’t want to do anything

My heart and soul are forced to believe that this is OK.

Questioning

He’s my dream prince

I stare at him all day

One word to him might mess it all up

Should I talk to him or should I not?

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 27, 2013

Anonymous

We looked toward the night sky,

And felt a foreboding sense of vulnerability.

But our state of ignorance to which we were destined,

Was no match for the iron hubris which we had all received.

We invented stories of what we were,

Of what would be,

Of the unknowable wisdom

That we could all supposedly see.

We arrived upon answers to the questions we despised,

Because possibility of uncomfortable truth,

Was inferior to blissful lies.

We judged the world around us, to hold us back from the pinnacle of mankind,

that adherence to tradition was a virtue, and new trends were heresy;

that blind acceptance was to be associated to the open-minded,

and the questioning was to be characteristic of the cynical.

But acceptance is not bright, and questions are not dark,

For it are those who accept what they know that will never know life.

It is white that is the least humble, making sure that it is the most facile to spot.

It is ivory that is the weakest and corruptable, as it can be tarnished by the slightest touch.

It is lightest that also has the most greed, claiming all of the colors of the spectrum,

      Completely for itself

It is the idea,

the notion,

the proposition,

the new thought,

and the unconventional mind that is met with the most scorn,

that will prove to be of the most utility to the masses.

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

                            

April 26, 2013

“Redemption”

By Zachary Kundinger

Hopeless and helpless, a slave to addiction Convenient physician, please fill my prescription Wandering aimless, through non-fiction friction Unaware of limits imposed, sickness restrictions Arrogant ignorance, I feel that I’m free Last thought in my mind, steel wraps around tree Stricken and shaken, I suddenly see Epiphany awakened, no longer just about me In selfish pursuit, of imbibed misdirection Shattered truth in my hand, I hate my reflection A coward uncouth, revealed in spirit dissection Submit unto you, God it’s your will and discretion Perpetual discontent, in a residence divided Attempting to mend, where love and addiction collided Replacing the pieces, they still fit. I’ve decided Inside remain peaceless, passion and hope reignited Time to start fresh, baptized I’ve been cleaned Childish smiles, become less distant than dreams Love reunited, a bond forged without a crack or a seam Strength is restored, for the Lord hath redeemed.

“This poem is written about the emotional turmoil one goes through in the battle to overcome addictions.  If anybody reading this is struggling in their own fight remember, you are NEVER alone!  I know at times your life may feel as though it is falling apart, but it is NEVER beyond repair.  For those of you who may be struggling with a situation in which a loved one is slipping into the abyss of chemical dependence, remember, they are looking for your love and support NOT condemnation and frustration; believe me they get enough of that from themselves.”

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“Paint Your Objectivity Green”

By Shane Teter

The stink of a fart

The pinch of a kiss

The peace of gentleness

Money, the love of it –

The colors in before my eyes at the onset of a migraine

The numbers that math symbolically represents. . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

There is no measure of human experience.

. . . . . . . .

I give this poem four, 4, IV, cuatro, 0100, ....-

“Whenever given the choice between objectivity and subjectivity, Shane always picks subjectivity -- always. Not one time has he ever picked objectivity. Okay once. Just once.”

April 25, 2013

"Witching Hour Ramblings"

By Megan Rheaume-Brand

Creeping in my head I'm dead. Creeping in my head. All along the bed I said.

      Writhing in compassion. Compaction. Philanthropic.

Seasonal tropical fruitanical orangemanical.

            Staying awake. Staying alive. peeping and pipping. ghastly gnarling.

 galloping garangotangs. phillip phillips' Phillips. krackling krafties.

Dive deep into the death. dive deep into the shards and let them print words on your soul.

Clicking and clacking. jumping and dancing. Leaping.

      They are not who you think they are, or who they try to be.

 They are the mysterious tendrils snaking up and grabbing hold of your tiny throat.

They can't breathe. You can't breathe. He can't breathe. She can't breathe. We can't breathe.

I won't breathe.

            I could jump. I will jump. I will willingly fall down and down and down until the world flips and I am falling up.

Eating your cake and having it too. Although it is all in the distant past.

Ship's smoking on the horizons of yesterday's stale memory.

I wouldn't come for me either. You can't help anyone at all if you don't let yourself help you. She is sick. She has a debilitating sickness that will never be helped.

      Never has the line of a blade seemed so calming, so cooling. So heartfelt.

I wish I would fly. I could. Morning doves mourning childhood's murder.

      The creaking of the chairs billowing throughout the sycamore tree only frighten her more.

And while she did live, it was not a life any person would survive.

And no happiness did exist ever again. Ever after. And then some.

      And when she cried out in sorrow, the chains did not approve. they tightened even more. she did not relax; in fact, she screamed one long note of pure terror as she realized they were not going to let nature take it's own course. Artificial life is the new black.

 And it will prolong her forevers.

"I wrote it one lonely day in the middle of the night."

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 24, 2013

“Make the Pain go away”

By Kayla Myers

Tears in my eyes

As I think about us

They rush down my face

Because I can’t feel your touch

You’re in my heart and mind

But you’re not by my side.

Why did I do it?

I ask everyday

Why can’t I make this pain go away?

Hiding and appearing

It haunts me then leaves me

Just like a game.

It tortures my feelings

People all say

One day it will change

I hope that one day

The pain goes away.

I can’t handle the way it makes me feel inside

The way it rips at my heart

And makes me to cry

I know it’s my fault in most everyway

But why can’t I just make the pain go away…

“This poem was written when I was going through a really bad break up. It was a really hard period in my life but I’m working past it best I can!”

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 23, 2013

“Bull”

By Latefah Poole

Young bobby Jo,

Misguided and abused

Although it’s been a couple o' years

The divorce brought about lost truths

looked at as worthless,

Never did anything right,

Couldn't make Dad happy, Regardless of how he tried.

They called him names

They put him down and told him lies

He cried for help

But no one hears silent cries.

.......Finally, he bottled his anger,

Stop excepting love,

He would no longer be inferior, enough turned into Enough.

Found a kid at school one day

The smallest in the pack

He turned into a superior.. and he never again looked back....

Time heals all and we all have a story,

To understand the bully is to understand the bullied

“I chose this title because the word bull is the common ground between the words bully and bullied. I have learned that the wise man is not the one who is able to understand the understandable, but the one who can understand both the understandable and the not so understandable. Even the worst people have an innocence.”

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today’s posting.

April 22, 2013

“Bad Poet”
By Danielle Branley
 
the words are clumsy
no fault of my own intent
the gift passed by
 
“I am a Graphic Design student at Nicolet getting ready for graduation. I am from St. Germain. I write as a hobby. I decided to change careers as an Early Childhood teacher after 22 years to become a freelance artist.”
 
* * * * * * * * * *
 
“This Painful Joy”
Anonymous
 
Joyful morning
The day dawns with importance
Knowing that it has changed my life
Dramatically
Significantly
Heart pounds with love
Brain swirls with possibilities
Memories flood
A gift

And then a tug . . .

 
Another morning
Waking to this day of importance
Unknown changes to an existence
Dramatic
Significant
Heart pounds with love
Brain swirls with questions
Memories break
A loss
 
Two hearts entwined without shared experience

April 21, 2013

"A Blog of Poetry"
By Wayne Eternicka

Emulating with envy the bustling creative culture of the big
Or just smugly instigating it in the less-frustrated northern wood
Where traffic isn't traffic and all can join the gig
But crime missed his flight and people do what they should
With a squad car resting that's just part of "Good Morning"
Never driving 70 past it, but wondering if I could
With no real news, then with a dubious warning
Was there really a dead mouse in the coffee machine?
A two minute walk to a haircut cheap as sin
And nearly everyone knows in person the dean
Oops - no haircut for almost a year
Until cosmo students are once again keen
We can just look like Wolfman-Jack: No fear
On the campus more trees than students I've seen
But the friendly ones I'll depart with a tear
Coz there's a day quickly approaching to leave
To say goodbye to whatever has become dear
But the joy is in what the students believe
Idealism in the young eyes is ablaze
And I can't refuse to be fazed

"Nothing so special. It rhymes sometimes, but in retrospect, I think it should have been done differently."

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 20, 2013

"Weary"
By Jayme Martin

Morning has come, bearing no surprises.
     As usual, the hands of time are moving faster than I.

From a cloud of peacefulness, the transition begins.
     With every ounce of my being, I lower my toes to meet the
          surface underfoot.

As if it is an invisible trigger atop an imaginary stop watch.
     The race has begun, ready or not.

Similar to that of a snail, the weight of the world sits on my back.
     I trudge through my path with lead feet.

The light is blinding, harsh, and unwelcomed.
     Thoughts flood in from every direction, causing a hazy fog
          of confusion.

My eyes meet this familiar image returning the stare.
     Yet at the same time is unrecognizable.

To whom stands before me?
     The lost soul of who once was,
          The scarred heart of who remains,
               Or is it the sight of a daydreamer?

"I have always loved writing but seldom make time for it anymore. I was glad to see the email request for submission."

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A Haiku
By Kelly Haverkampf

dog hair tumbleweeds / rolling across the prairie / of my kitchen floor

"I am constantly amazed at how much hair one little dog can shed. And how, exactly, does it form into balls that end up in the corner?"

April 19, 2013

“The flame and the Icicle”

By Regan Crute

Once upon a time there was a flame and an icicle who fell in love but found themselves in quite a pickle.

You see the closer the little flame crept the more the icicle wept, and more the icicle cried the more the flame died.

The icicle she knew that such a love would not fair, but the little flame loved her and didn’t care.

Please give your warmth to someone new, this will never do she cried, but his feelings the flame could not hide.

So higher he crept to near her side until her last tear she cried and in a heap of ash he died.

Thus tragically ending the affair of the flame and the icicle.

* * * * * * * * * *

 

"Mulligans"

By Chris Meier

 

Such an uncomplicated concept

with such a whimsical,

musical name even.

 

Teeing off in golf,

hitting from the rough,

fairway, sand-trap or

other hazard

mis-hits and whiffs

occur occasionally.

 

Mistakes are made.

 

Mulligans mitigate.

 

They are do-overs,

allowing for second chances,

unconditional forgiveness.

 

They are a means to keep

things fun and light.

 

So here's an ode to Mulligans:

May they live long and thrive

on the tee, fairway, and green.

May they be accepted as readily

as coupons for decaf coffee in the

grocery store.

May they be welcome in hospital

waiting rooms, automobile repair shops,

classrooms, living rooms, gas stations,

highways, city streets, country roads,

bedrooms, boardrooms, kitchens,

temples, mosques, churches,

lodges and huts.

 

May they forever remain

par for the course --

from the first to the final

stroke of every human heart.

 

"I am a writer and former high school English teacher working as a writing tutor at Nicolet."







April 18, 2013

“Industrializing the Wilderness”
By Michelle Sweet
 
there is a fury within
     it comes from feeling all of the feels
          feels about the wild
     the earth is our home
quit wrecking it

“We’re reading Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey in my Environmental Lit class and he sees so much beauty in the wild. His words help us to experience the ‘harsh and brutal mysticism’ that is found in nature. His descriptions are not only what the desert looks like, but what it feels like. Through his words I feel so many feels. And we need to protect the wild. There are places in this book that we will never get a chance to see -- beautiful places that no longer exist -- because we’ve been ruining our planet. It needs to stop.”
 
* * * * * * * * * *

“Our Marriage”

By Heather Schallock
 
To my husband of 17 years,
There have been some tears.
But with each other on our side,
It is to your heart, I will forever be tied.
Feels like yesterday, we walked down the aisle.
When I think of our wedding day, I always smile.
We have made a real life together,
With two children and our furry son!
Seems too simple, saying you’re the one.
But it’s true,
I will always love you.

“This is probably the first poem I have written since I was in college almost 20 years ago. I really enjoyed the process of reflecting on my marriage as I put pen to paper. There’s something about poetry that seems to lend itself to rough drafts actually written by hand, rather than typed on a computer.”

April 17, 2013

“Cities”
By Zach Spencer
 
A grand narrative speaking of towers and gateways to what seems another world. An enormous shell encircling the city like vultures to its prey. The speckles through the city, white like snow falling through show the slums and tents crammed in the middle of the lords and ladies that control the land. A spider web of streets all leading to the center, leading to the sun. The dark and stony sun that all dream to have but dare not take. Drawing to it all the wonder that a city would have. No one knows that this world, this bustling city is just a mask. Only the surface of the true city. Beneath that stony maze of streets and houses lies a larger labyrinth. Tunnels and stairwells leading to small caverns dimly lit with oil soaked linen torches. Each capsule of dim light incubates lost souls banished from the great city above. Each soul seethes with bitterness and anger at the thought of their light soaked brethren, feeding off all the gifts that fall into their laps from those long arms of god, while they, in their prison, are forced to feed on waste and excess thrown to them through slots like scraps thrown to hounds chained to entry ways like they to the gates of hell. Through the winding tunnels spiraling down into pits of embers and coals, do these poor and pitiful peons when these thoughts of their prison become too much to bear. Allowing these poisonous thoughts to be just that and darken their minds like storms, clouding their judgment, so they hurl themselves into the glowing fields of fire and bursting into dancing flames in form of their key. Their escape. Their release. Their freedom

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

 

April 16, 2013

A Haiku
By Leslie Trochlil

Music flows in steps.
Petals, leaves rustle through skirts.
The light of ballet.

"I have been dancing ballet for 16 years. With its own rhythms, fluidity, stories, and grace, ballet could easily be described as poetry in motion."

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“Gray Moods (on the side)”

By Shane Teter
 
Gifts from the gift shop (advertising)
Strangers in public places (web browsing)
April 15, 2013 (snowing)
Grand aspirations (quotidian abilities)
 
“A novel for one my classes used parenthesis in a clever way. So I played around with that use for this poem.”

 

April 15, 2013

"Footprint"
By Elizabeth Fredrickson

The snow,
I look back and see my footprints.
But these aren't the footprints I want to leave behind,
I want something to benefit the world.
Something that affects the world like big, strong trees that grow,
people singing,
all sharing life and living as one.
I want to be remembered for who I was
and what I did to change the world,
not to have it forgotten like these footprints in the snow.
Only there for a short time,
but melts away in the spring.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Blood Sport"
Anonymous

In the distant past when the sportsman prowled
He was candid in his covetousness
Hunting, shooting, fishing, trapping, and death
Killing for blood and sporting for a kill

Some hunt in pursuit of food it is true
Yet amusement and reward govern all
The big catch, a pelt, a rack of antlers
A trophy for the wall mount is the prize

Today the nimrod is under assault
The critics use words too painful to bear
His actions, they say, are brutal and coarse
God's creatures, they say, deserve a life too

Loath to yield his sport or holster his gun
The hunter nabs words more pleasant to hear
He harvests or culls and thins the herd down
Veiled claims, for he reaps without sowing

"The intent behind this poem is to point out the disingenuous use of pastoral terms to describe a blood sport like hunting."

 

April 14, 2013

“It’s over”
By Susan M. Novak
 
It’s over
The life I’ve built
It’s over
The sun so bright
It’s over
The dreams I had
It’s over
It makes me sad
It’s over
To have more time
It’s over
All that’s left to say
It’s over

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.

April 13, 2013

“Unobtainable Beauty”
By Latefah Poole

Almond shaped eyes, by God perfectly placed
Yet mascara and makeup replaces and erase
curves twirl and swerve like beautiful hills
But a stick figure would be more ideal
What is beauty?
Blind to the perfections because of the imperfections
Looking for direction and singing the wrong song
Fake nails colored bright, fake hair so long
Skin tight clothes, short skirts to show skin.
Mimicking models and remolding the you within
What is beauty?
Confused and abused by the heels on your feet
Competing with perfection and it’s getting harder to beat
Letting them convince you the cover-up is convincing
Trying to make sense of the senseless
Losing yourself to become more accepted
Constantly adding to your depression
Is this beauty..?

“I love poetry and I was excited to write a poem for this event.”

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No poetry by faculty/staff members for today's posting.