April 6, 2015

“The Lost Girl”
Megan Marks

She was a little girl, left to face the world on her own; 
with nowhere to go, 
she turned to the wrong people.  

Just wanting love, she was sadly disappointed
not getting what she longed for
she was shown a world of darkness and chaos. 

She embraced the darkness and was compelled to obey it.  
Letting it consume her, chaining her to addiction.  
Her life as she knew it was her self-made prison.  

She was a lost soul, lost in the depths of deception. 
Confused and unknowing she finally got a break.  
She was given a choice in the form of a key.  

Scared yet curious, she searched for the item it opened.  
She was pushed to her breaking point, but this time it was different. 
She fought back and stood up for herself.  

This was her moment of clarity.  
She found what she was looking for herself.  
The key was her own happiness.

"This is my first year at Nicolet. I am twenty-seven years old and a mother of two. I am a recovering alcoholic and addict. I am gong to school for A.O.D.A. and Mental Health counseling. This poem is my raw emotions and feelings."

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“Gone”
By Jennifer Ruth Jackson

Another year passed by
Falling leaves, snow flakes
Work days, relaxing weekends
Sailing on Lake Michigan
You used to like that

The whole house is redecorated
There is now blue where
Green dominated
And some floral patterns your
Father hates but mother
Insisted upon
Every room is different
But yours

Trails near the house are
Overgrowing
Where you used to walk
So often
Your sister swears she
Sees your footprints
After it rains

They all light candles for you
Bright, small points melting
After all this time
They will always
You are missed

“I can’t draw or act, so I write poems and short stories. My work has been published in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Kaleidoscope Magazine, and more. When I am not writing, you can catch me playing video games or making jewelry.”

April 5, 2015

No new poetry submission by students for today’s posting.

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“Flying High”
By Carla Therese Froehlich

Today I saw an eagle fly –
Oh, so high across the sky.
Above the lake and way, way up high . . . .
It circled round and round and round again.
Many times, and then - a jet flew by in back of him,
far away, but plain to see.
You couldn’t hear a sound - just saw the white jet trail float behind.
What a perfect way to see . . . nature at its best . . .
Lazy - powerful - beautiful, and more.  
While man’s invention enhanced the view -
for me, for you, for anyone taking the time to look,
to notice such a free and glorious sight!

“For Jeff: Retired Free Spirit.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Playing the Field”
By Jeff Reimer

Some seemed short, but they played really hard.
Some had that glow, with a little boy grin.
The big guys had a swagger, and tough eyes ------
And oh, the young girls liked them ---- playing ball and life.

“For Carla: To prove I can write a poem.”

April 4, 2015

“Streetlight Temples to the Sun”

By Matt Persike

And the LA Sunbeat blotted my brow as she carried away in her blue adolescence

Stunning Oceania gliding past columns to Ra while we hungered like cows at the gate

Welcome to the Wild West; enter the Circus and dance as with peasants

The bricks we lay are made only of the oldest of pages, and we lay ourselves ‘neath our towers, seeking fate

Whipped into shape by our masterful shadows, the Sun’s done away with hearth; with desire

Giza moans to us, rumbles the world over and the Sun never sets on civilization

Freedom burns in Alexandria; Wonder in Boston; Volumes find warm solace in Tyranny’s fire

Rodeo clowns lasso minutes a-charge while we hide behind typewriters named Imagination

A streetlight disciple, I follow the pavement and trace my own lines on my sundialed wrist

Morrowyear’s relics and gold among fools with coffee cups and smoky blinds

Our perfect world spins thirty-thrice per minute, bonded by hate to coexist

History is become us -- trapped in our mirrors, revised by drip-drop clocks and melting minds

So while Westward winds caress the Sierras and young, wayword looseleafs erode Chronos’ horns;

While the daughter of Neptune seductively twirls and darts through the shadows of our Streetlight tower

Though tongues may be many and ears may be few and our canvas is faded and beaten and torn:

The horizon still smirks on our damning candlelit voyage

            Flicker by Flicker,

                        Hour by Hour

"This is us. Ginsberg’s angel-headed hipsters have grown old; their burning ideals dusty, ashen. A series of wars is no longer enough to forge brotherhood. Long-hairs wear their uniqueness in faded 

t-shirts from concerts they never saw by singers who died before they were born. Tinfoil and glitter -- they tape wire halos above their minds and smoke and pretend to appreciate jazz because it is intended to be so. Manufactured points-of-view and planned spontaneity for a novel’s worth of bullshit.

But it’s better than the radio.

I am a part-time student, lifelong resident of Rhinelander. Currently completing requirements at Nicolet for my BA in political science/international studies at Madison.”

* * * * * * * * * 

“BELIEVE!”

By Norma Semling

Believe is a powerful word.

This one word can open our eyes so we can see light.

It can open our ears to help us hear.

It lifts our spirits and gives us hope

It helps us to open our hearts and set our minds at ease.

It gives us confidence to be strong.

It gives us peace within as we hold on to those things we treasure.

It gives us the courage to use those things we have, and not dwell on those we don't.

We are left with positive thoughts, knowing how precious every moment is.

How lucky we are to be here today, and each and every day forward.

As we learn to understand PD, we do not dwell on things beyond our reach.

What is meant to be ours will find its way into our lives.

We have the power; the strength, and the support of others all around us.

Today is here. Believe in tomorrow.

“Parkinson disease affects us in so many ways and it is so important to be strong and to be positive so I  wrote this poem. :)”          

April 3, 2015

“Lovely Pain”
Anonymous

I’m drowning in dirty water
But you pushed me in
I have a habit with the monster
I’m addicted to the sin
Innocent days, are those I miss
You laid hands on me
And granted me with this kiss

But I blame me
For all those things, and this
I cannot live without my habit
that now
is always amiss
                                               
All these things live inside me
They are depriving me of my bliss.
Once, I was happy, I used to be clean
Now these things
Are eating me, consuming me
Driving me insane.
I’m just a lonely girl
hopeless,
Empty, used, and left in pain
I’m still alive, but I feel mostly dead
Why must I stay here trapped inside my head?
The heart I have is cracked and almost gone
So why must I stay here and linger on?
I fall deeper in the murky water
I’m about to drown
And the people passing by
Just look at me and frown
Sometimes I feel nothing
Sometimes I feel it all

But I have not come to terms
With none of this at all.

 

I wrote this poem years ago while I was struggling with an abusive relationship after a drug overdose and an ongoing battle with addiction. This is very personal to me. I now have been sober for almost three years. I'm going to Nicolet for the Nursing program and now have a fiancé and a beautiful daughter. I couldn't be any happier than I am now.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

“Amends”
By Ed O’Casey

(For Anna Akhmatova and Dax Riggs)

Carlos once showed me how to step
into daylight so that I could know:
the sun is more
than just a hole in the sky.

We approached the grave purposefully,
Carlos with the pick,
the shovel, trudging
just enough behind me to ensure
I would not divert,
or launch myself from the graveyard.
It was enough to lift my feet.

Now the crater is empty,
and Carlos kisses the stillness
out of the exhumed,
directs me to lift it,
to cradle it like an infant
that might one day resuscitate me.

I put a hand on its cheek
and we relive its vacant past:
the heat, the hopelessness of infancy.
Today I would unlock the door,
roll down a window, and release
the sun’s ardent children
and this one.

Tomorrow Carlos and I will cradle it
to my family and kneel
at their door,
lift the undead remains high
and beg that they see what I have overcome.

I am a full-time English instructor and new resident of Rhinelander. I've survived my first winter, so I feel I can take on pretty much anything.

April 2, 2015

“Rose”
By Benji Haling

A face of pedals
So soft it meddles
My heart, I revel
In intoxication of her sweet
Perfumes that fill me
Such a treat
Pedals so delicate
Not to be haggled with
Woe causes her fragile stem
Reclusive behind her thorns
A precious gem
Swaying in the wind
Blooming in the sun
Waiting to be plucked
And smelled again

* * * * * * * * * *

“Clear Glass Beads”
By Scott Fiocchi

Trees in the rain,
With droplets on every node,
Like clear ice crystals,
Like drips of diamond,
Like beads of glass,
Reflecting light,
Making the trees into twinkling,
Glowing wet masses,
Which light the way for weary travelers.

I wrote this poem after going for a walk on the street after a thunderstorm.

April 1, 2015

“Bard”
By Benji Haling

I am a bard
Not a doctor, lawyer, or engineer
And I don’t have a business card
But a bard
A lyrical star
If you ever want to find one
You don’t have to look very far
Our noses are stuck between two pages
And our hands are strumming against our heads
Trying to rhythmically extract the thoughts from our brains
And inscribing them with some lead
It's not what we do that defines us but what we write
For it's not just who we are but also who we hope to be
Creating heroes, villains, romance, and tragedy for the world to see
I am a bard
I want to rock, roll, soothe, soften, break, repair, exalt, and crush the soul
When my audience is done reading or listening I want there to be a hole
One that can only be filled with more of my work
Seeing the world in a new light can be a curse or a perk
I am a bard
Words flow through me as easily
As emotions, they come naturally
I’m a bard and sometimes I can’t help it
But to accidentally flaunt it
Though I’d be lying to say it never felt good
To make others feel daunted
I have an intellect
Creatively
Masking the world into what I want it to be
Because when you see a blue, I see a blue
But do I see the same blue as you
For me the blue has an inner hue
Of a restless and yearning to be unbounded being, barely subdued
By a calm exterior waiting for the opportune moment
I see all that because I’m a writer, a composer, and a poet
I am a bard
Lo and behold it
I’m a creator of life
And all my characters know it
They exist in the head and heart
Of every listener and not till death do they part
I am a bard
And you better know it

My name is Benji Haling and I'm doing the university transfer program. I like long boarding with my dog, chess, camping trips to the boundary waters, and soccer. I'm currently writing a book and I hope to get it published someday. 

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“A Memory in Three Movements”
By Rebecca Koshak

1. water music

she hears this song
and it makes her think of you
on the Rialto
hearing the gondolas swish below in the canal
Venice, afloat with lights
as darkness coats the waters

desidero che la vostra musica potrebbe echeggiare ancora!

2. strength

and she knows you, again
when she sees the photographs
taken of your skyline
another day dawns February
and chill is the wind and the sea

a staund ontae ye ben an see ye docht.

3. eternal city

and you
oh, she remembers you
you of the seven hills
your history, viewed in every corner

urbs eternus, vestri vita est a admiratio!

and the memories
of these things that you gave her
she keeps safe

believing that one day
she will know each of your embraces again.

The three cities of this poem are Venice, Edinburgh, and Rome, all of which I visited in the spring semester of 2008. I felt that including more cities would defeat the purpose of the poem, even though I loved London, Florence, and Dublin as well. Each city here has a language set for it. Here's the meaning of the phrases:

Venice: Italian: I wish that your music could echo again!
Edinburgh: Scots: I stand on your mountain and witness your strength.
Rome: Latin: Eternal City, your life is a wonder!

Announcement

The Nicolet College Poetry Project will begin April 1, 2015. In the meantime, feel free to read through poems from previous years. See Blog Archive to the right of this message.