By Maurisa Weld
Peace is disturbed, it approaches.
“knock, knock”
Anxiety.
It takes over.
“knock, knock
”who is it?”
“anxiety.”
“no ones home”
Who is it?
The being who controls your thoughts.
No one’s home,
yet I feel something watching.
The being who controls your thoughts
makes your heart pound and hands sweat.
By Maurisa Weld
Devastated, the dinosaur drunkenly stumbled
into a half-dreaming parakeet flying lazy low.
Downward ascending deep to the dark floor went the dumb duo.
“DANGIT!” the dino yelled.
“Do you watch where you dawdle?” the bird chirped.
Devastated, the dinosaur drunkenly stumbled.
Parakeet darted to the canopy.
He perched on a twig too weak to hold him. SNAP.
Downward ascending deep to the dark floor went the dumb duo.
By Maurisa Weld
Everyone has an identity
that goes beyond first names.
Though no one wants to unlock their destiny,
for they are too busy kicking around, playing life’s games.
Fate is behind a locked door.
We wait in hopes to find a key on the ground.
Not changing who we are, making the same mistakes as before
we wait for the door to open when we could easily knock it down.
Pick up the pieces, life is a puzzle.
At first attempt you may not feel like a victor
but with perseverance you will defeat the struggle
and see you have made a beautiful picture.
A poem by Sophie Harrold
quietly,
with no one noticing,
She moves the branches aside.
humbly,
when no one else can see,
She cares for everyone.
sweetly,
while everyone else is having fun,
She stays behind.
in Her life,
people hear Her without listening,
they see Her without looking,
but She continues to move the branches aside.
without Her,
they would falter,
with Her,
they will thrive.
but one question remains,
for Her,
who will move the branches aside?
By Michael R. Young
An old house decomposes to my left. On my right, a Victorian schoolhouse stands in proud obsolescence, its arched stone doorway ascended to by grand stone steps. The silent ghosts of bygone children clamber upward toward silent school bells, scowling hall monitors and musty rooms. Blackboard erasures have left their chalky marks, pounded on stoic brick walls. The halcyon days of the three “R’s” and recess have given way to short term memory loss. But I still remember Dotty Evan’s blonde braids, blue tipped, as she sat at the desk in front of me. Her hair just barely reached the inkwell in my graffiti-carved, flip-top, oaken writing desktop.
By Brian Dickens
Go get a tattoo,
bold print across your forehead,
reading, “bless this mess.”
By James Pelletier
War is born on the diagonal
no space for symmetry
no place for proportion
nor stillness of balance.
The clatter of jagged edged
compositions
juxtaposed contrasts
and oppositions:
these are the strokes
that make their mark
on prints of black and white
and colors on canvases
that march their way
into the collections of History.
By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
For fifty-one years, Ed Stevens was steadfast to the Mount;
For over half a century, true wisdom graced his classes.
At Haley none remained longer, too many years to count;
You could always rely on Ed, he thrived in helping the masses.
Ed began teaching when the Mount was young, a fledgling college;
The community needed educators and Ed Stevens answered its call.
Physics, Engineering, Math; to these Ed showed the light of knowledge.
His torched burned bright for generations; he was a man who stood tall.
By S. Byrne | Observer Contributor
I’d love to applaud our progress
to say that we, as a society, as a country, as a nation
have come together to make all people feel welcome
to ensure that everyone knows that
“All lives matter,” as they like to say
I would love to stop talking about
“The issues of the past”
to stop
“Bringing up the mistakes of [our] ancestors”
to not have to have any discussion
regarding race or ethnicity with children
I would love to pretend that things are good
that all people are treated equally
that things have improved
An Interview with the Vampire Blackout Poem by Elysian Alder | Editor-in-Chief
Excerpt from page 19 of Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice
“I saw
Lestat again.
I saw him
as I have seen him before,
stark in the night.
I saw him,
his life and blood;
radiant, luminous.
I saw only Lestat.
It was as if I was so
enthralled with Lestat
that I looked at nothing else
for a long time.
His laughter,
his heart.
It was confusing:
soft but distinct,
increasing but discrete delight—
my Lestat.
Rid yourself, don’t fall so
madly in love that you
lose.