Author: Havyn R

My Mimi, quite the cook,
My Mimi loves reading books,
My Mimi is sweet,
My Mimi makes the best treats,
My Mimi hates pests,
But My Mimi loves pets,

My Mimi never moody,
My Mimi quite the beauty,
My Mimi never cold,
My Mimi her heart made of gold,
My Mimi super hardworking,
My Mimi always Smirking,
My Mimi the best Mimi

Silent Smoke

By. Sarah Yule

The street lights dimly light up the alley.
The music from in the venue slowly begins to die down,
The next band will be going on soon.

She stumbles her way outside to the ally, admiring the light
sprinkling hit the ground, and the dim lights reflected off it.
A sign reflects brightly catching her attention.
“No Smoking”
She doesnt pay it much mind.

After a deep sigh she leans her head against the
cold brick wall.
She flicks the top off and takes out a cigarette, as she goes
to light it her lighter begins to falter but in the end it gives in.

She takes a few inhales letting the warmth fill her throat and lungs.
Flicking off ash here and there.
She feels slight burn sensations as the ashes hit the spaces between
her fishnets.
She minds her own and enjoys the quiet night sky.

A door swings open, which startles her.
She drops her cigarette.
A man stumbles out of the door and down the small concrete stairs.
He reeks of alcohol, the scent following him as he proceeds.

Stumbling to the alley he notices her,
he notices her small posture.
Intrigued he approaches her, which startles her more.
The once peaceful night with the dim lighting and sprinkling rain,
becomes an uncomfortable atmosphere.

She begins to walk away from the man, but he
goes for her wrist and takes hold.
He’s a big guy, the alcohol doesn’t help.

She stays quiet if she screams it’ll anger him.
Wishing to anything she could think of for this to end soon.
The ground was cold, she shivers as the sprinkle turns to rain.
She reaches for her small black dress, which is now soaked and
covered in gravel.

She covers herself and leaves the show, not wanting to stay
and see him again in the crowd as the next band begins.
Her fishnets hang on the rigid street pole, nails sticking out
every which way.
They’re soaked and torn.

Leaves fall flowers rot.
Skies grey, days short, yellow leafs
The Fall awakens.

White snow, a fragment
Crystals flutter an icy end
Fleeting warmth no end

Infinite blue sky
Endless bliss in warm fields happy
in heaven content

Rain pours ebb and flow
Flowers bloom tree leaves green healthy
Spring of mourning starts.

So much can be told
From a warm summer sky
What has it seen?
That vast expanse of sunlight and cloud.
Where has it been?

As I strode along the pier,
I stared that sky down.
Tell me your secrets!
The ones that lay just along your horizon,
The ones that slyly sneak away
as the sun begins to set.

It was 6:00 o’clock in the afternoon.
The time to wind down began soon.
But the summer sky knew.
Staring down the bustling city,
Still brimming with life,
She knew.

And so did I.
We shall meet again,
Summer sky
On a day quite like this.

But for now,
I must return home.

So much can be told
From a warm summer sky
What has it seen?
That vast expanse of sunlight and cloud.
Where has it been?

As I strode along the pier,
I stared that sky down.

Tell me your secrets!

The ones that lay just along your horizon,
The ones that slyly sneak away
as the sun begins to set.

It was six o’clock in the afternoon.
The time to wind down began soon.
But the summer sky knew.
As she stared down the bustling city,
Still brimming with life,
She knew.

And so did I.
We shall meet again,
Summer sky
On a day quite like this.

But for now,
I must return home.

I sacrifice my time
To engage in benign
Conversation in the morning

My sister and mom
Sing and dance the same song
I smile and brew my coffee

Their presence I cling to
Because they know and I do
That these moments will someday end

Our tears will fall heavy
My hands are steady
As I hold my sister close

I sit in my room
distant and doomed
To feel like this forever

I’m juggling swords of doom.

Swords of doom implies that it’s more than just swords
which is already a lot to juggle in itself
but somehow it’s worse so instead
I’m juggling swords of doom.
Doom is defined as death and destruction
but maybe that’s not really the right way to describe it
because when you juggle “doom” as an idea,
well, symbolically, that implies you are doomed while juggling
but the doom only occurs when you slip
and drop the swords,
so in that case
I’m juggling swords of life.
The problem with this is juggling swords of life implies
that the swords are what is keeping me from death,
“doom”, and yet they are causing me the inevitable “doom” in the first place.
But maybe from the way “life” makes me feel like I’m juggling swords of “doom”,

I’m just juggling swords of everything.

The week has been so long and yet it’s only a Tuesday.
I’m sitting at a desk with broken ears,
The teacher’s words float out the door before I read them,
my head bowls a strike on the pins on the desk.

My needy body years for water but foggy eyes
Brings the water down my neck and onto my shirt.
A kid behind me snickers. I turn around, he smirks at me, I turn back
And suddenly my red face wakes up my mind.

I giggle at my bad luck, a kid in front of me turns
And we make eye contact. I give him an awkward smile,
but his face starts to flush as he avoids my gaze.
Odd. When I reach for my bottle, I notice his chromebook.

He’s writing a sonnet, I stare perplexed at the first line:
The week has been so long and yet it’s only a Tuesday.

– An old love story, written by yours truly of course.
– A picture of a never ending brightly colored Lisa frank tiger.
– An old packing list from my very first time at summer camp.
– A sketch of my millions apon millions of millions dollar wedding.
– Finally, a story of the time my crush asked me out!

This poem is short and sweet,
It’s that simple, or is it?

I mean, what makes a poem short,
How many characters there are?
If that is so then how can we know,
What the shortest poem is?

There must be another way,
To measure a poem’s length,

What about actual size?
Can you measure a poem in inches?
If you measured like that
Then smallest poem would be the size of an atom,
And that I cannot fathom.

What else could we do
To measure a poem’s length.

How about the time it takes to read?
Is there a way to measure a poem in minutes?
If that was the case,
Then the shortest poem would remain unheard
Because it would be too short to hear.

So it appears that there is no way to measure the length of a poem,
Maybe someday.