Creative | Posted by Nicole T on 07/15/2011
The Dishwasher’s Daydream
The sink-washed dishes clap thunderously as you dry them
against one another, as if attempting to ignite a fire between
two friendly sticks. The result: a broken dish
or another proclamation that “This cup…plate…bowl is cracking.”
The washed skin on my hand is growing apart, like the leather on
a cow’s back, and it goes down the drain, and gets cozy with the debris
along with the blood that came from cleaning knives too quickly.
You scurry around the kitchen, telling me about your day
as you shove the dishes into their proper places. The plates go
above the larger plates, and ceramic cups go into a different cupboard
next to the other things that aren’t identical in size and shape.
And if I were a bowl, I would be …
Creative | Posted by Talia on 07/1/2011
He Promised Her A Rose Garden
It was 1976.
Peak of the women’s lib movement.
New York, New York.
Peak of the peak.
She was going for a PhD in psych.
She could, thanks to Betty Friedan.
“After you finish your PhD,” he told her,
“We’ll move to Long Island.
Have three or four kids.
Buy a house.
With a white picket fence,
And a rose garden.”
She was nineteen.
She fell for it.
A week after the wedding
He got fired.
It wasn’t such a surprise.
Between the mental illness
Never showing up
And long sick leaves
It was just a matter of time.
“I won’t get a job immediately,” he told her.
“You can type anywhere.
I have to do something important.
I have to have a career.
I’m the man of …
Creative | Posted by Halee K on 06/24/2011
I can shoot lightning bolts from my fingertips
Poetry spouts like jewel-encrusted bullets
From my chapped lips
Soul shining like a beacon
Behind my eyes
Creating tiny worlds
With each sleepy sigh.
Beautiful is a fecund seed inside
Empowering all, despite the lies.
Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/17/2011
I’m sick and tired of you,
And I’m sick of the things you do,
I’m sick of the things you say,
And how you insist you have your own way,
For how can I forgive someone who can’t respect me and the choices I make,
A person who turns every rule I make into a rule to break?
My body is my temple and what happens to it is for me to decide,
And no, it is not just a matter of pride!
Shower me with all the sweet words you can say,
But I am not one you can easily sway,
You can try to make me cry out of guilt and sadness,
But it is all emotional blackmail I will not process.
Call me unlovable and stupid,
Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/3/2011
I won’t follow your conventions; I’ll lead my own way,
And I will refuse to listen to those that say nay,
I’ll speak my mind and do whatever I like,
Whether you think I am wrong or right,
For who are you to judge me or the things I do,
When you have barely spoken to me for a second or two?
I’ll welcome your friendship with open arms,
Yes I’m kind and cool, don’t be alarmed!
But the day you treat me like dirt on the floor,
You’ll sling your hook, and there’s the door!
I am a person of value and high esteem,
No matter how anyone else tries to make me seem.
Bash me and bruise me if you dare,
I’ll still trust my convictions sans any …
Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 05/27/2011
No Body Is Perfect
Colour me flawless, colour me pretty,
Isn’t it enough that I’m smart, caring and witty?
I have my scars and I have my scratches,
I even have my fair share of bulges,
I wish that the skeletons would stay in their closets,
And that those cans of worms would remain closed,
But I can’t deny that I’ve had my woes,
For perfection for me is a far away dream,
Unattainable and ever elusively seen,
I know that life goes on, but I still despair,
No matter how much it looks like I don’t care,
But I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to let go,
It’s time to be resilient and live again, to be emancipated and elated,
Because if it’s true that the sky is the limit and …
Creative | Posted by Shvaugn on 05/6/2011
Red Sunflower Desire
I can remember
the first time I split
this earth open,
locked within the blooming
garden of sunflowers that
formed the upstairs bathroom.
I told you first
almost begging, asking about
how I should tell our parents.
You dragged me downstairs
and pushed me forward
spilling forth with the news
as we all sat there awkwardly,
my small frame I was already beginning
buried beneath the blue folds
of my bathrobe,
underwear pressing tightly to my skin
as if to brand me
with red secrets of shame that
I would carry through out
I checked off day one immediately
beginning a regular cycle
of forgetfulness and inconvenience for
I can no longer count
between the lines in my memories,
a stack of pads sitting
on the …
Creative | Posted by Melanie Z on 04/8/2011
My Body Is
My body is not an object.
It is not another’s to sculpt or scrutinize.
It is not the canvas on which you paint your expectations and standards.
It is not your playground.
My body is not your project.
It is not where you decide.
It can’t be told what to wear, how to change, when to be available.
Its boundaries are not determined by the others.
My body is my home.
It is where I write my story.
It is where and how and why I reject your critiques and limitations.
It is rebellion in itself.
My body is a revolution.
It is the personification of my soul.
It is the vehicle through which I dance, riot, love, explore.
It is my choice.
It is my reclamation.
It is ever …