Compilation Poem for August 27, 2015

Beautiful pink clipboard
totally uncensored
this was the poem that
turned me on
the flowers were beginning to look up
children in the morning looked at exciting picture
gush forth waters of the pond
smelling hot in the sunlight

"It's been a few months since I've been here
but lets just get into it."
muscle tendon flesh soul expand

these are not usually the poems you
read on the first date
a crush not being returned, I want him
leave me once again undone
this one started out as the first three lines
focused on her exposed by lust
salty and semi-sweet menu
bitter fruit I used to like, but no longer taste
go on an ice cream diet and dream
of a better tomorrow

You should read them in French and Spanish
they sound better, a god overcomes me
love is without reason
I do not love you and I love you.
I do not love you yet
exiled from paradise

Broken hearted this world makes us
naked found him, one special light
waiting for someone to find them
they don't even know it's pointless
a couple waiting far behind
cause now they're really scared

"I'm ashamed of myself, so ashamed, shocking."
Structure is hard
"It is easier for me."
He seemed like a good guy, waiting for a light
to shine through
sitting a religious theology, taking a more academic approach
chews at obedience like a leather strap
Oh I've grown so cold in this thirsty maze
"Lord bid me sing!"

I'm reading old stuff.
It's a rerun
blue day dream
the sound of a falling tree
we all got a secret side
it's even stranger underneath
same as a curse
memories are a season
cry, cry baby, cry, come on baby

a silhouette across a distant sun
oblivious of engulfing dusk
a wild and burning desire
relentless hunger, savage indifferent
contemptuous hunger, groan
starved

I guess that's tall enough, right? Right? Riiiiight?
The bones bending and breaking...
"Death wasn't the black and white devil--
you were."
If it goes somewhere, we all had a hand in it.

Improvements after improvements
not a single soul for us to cling to
a line of flatline soldiers
a wild black widow

"I can't sleep. You're tugging
the words coming so fiercely."
I thought I was a pacifist
a little more delicate each time
to the one who got away
like day old newspapers.
They become ragged in the wind.

I was told the theme was treats
chocolate chocolate, no, no, no, goodbye
It's a game of block worlds
this is what a creeper looks like.
Bring your words and begin to shout
it is only the box I work in that pays
the rent, the concrete hell
I feel alone

Seventy
I'm crunching number,
venom smells like loss,
transcribe my thoughts
tracks of my cheaper thrills
music of miles they gripped
the rush of escaping
rising to rest in the sun

Can everyone just close their eyes
and not look at me?
Wave his last goodbye, I've never been in love
why is it the dream I long for
when there is nothing to run to

If I die today?
We cried....I sat back
stories in everyone's eyes
when loneliness became her best friend.
It's in my hands and in my feet.
I grind my teeth to dust
and it feels a lot like jello.
I'm sick of pretenders winning
lies bringing tears to eyes.
I want to love someone real
reality the crutch

My power-ranger night light shines bright
I get nervous around pretty
girls. I dream that I'll be
great one day.
Weird, stupid I want to be myself
reach further than the farthest star
leave the crutches
JUST DO IT!
Dare to be or not to be
Reality!
The crutch

Compiled by Brantz Woolsey and Rachel Oaks

Featured Writer for August 6, 2015: Dennis Clark

I first met Dennis when SFYS regular Colin Douglas recruited him to come read at the open mic and hopefully agree to be a featured writer.  In my capacity as a reader of LDS poets and as a member of the Association for Mormon Letters List (back when email lists were all the rage) I had seen some of his work and was excited to hear more.  Well, not only did Dennis agree to be a feature, he has become a regular fixture on Thursday nights in general.  Would that all of our features became regulars!  I love it!  Dennis read about 40 minutes of original work and then fielded questions from the writing community.  Thanks for your work, Dennis, and for your generosity in this growing community of writers.

Featured Writers/Artists: Chadd VanZanten, Russ Beck, and Tim King July 16, 2015

On July 16th we had the great pleasure of hosting Chadd VanZanten, Russ Beck, and Tim King in an SFYS first (quite possibly a Utah County first): the combination of creative writing and interpretive fly tying. Yes, you read that right.  Not only did we enjoy hearing excerpts from a wonderful prose book (On Fly Fishing the Northwest Rockies: Essays and Dubious Advice), we also learned a little more about tying flies (and some of us took home a colorful souvenir).  The best part was that it wasn't just a gimmick; it was a strong part of the whole experience.  I loved hearing why Tim chose each particular fly to complement the essay about to be read. The essays read were delightful and so engaging.  We hope to hear from Russ and Chadd in the future too.

Compilation Poem August 6, 2015

I'm going to start with the sad one and go from there

I wrote this poem to explain to myself the past pickled here

What I have done here is to slavishly steal his idea

Just think of it as a dispatch from the rabbit hole

Last night I saw the sun rise red

It glittered something fierce

Your prints are everywhere

As long as you don't say a word to me

a dream of love is all you'll be

I can't see why you're here at all

I listen to those lies they tell

Sometimes I contemplate gouging out my own ears

Everything you said is still running through my head

so that's that

I love you is just a statement I let slip

The first dead person I saw crushed him deep in the dust

Too much boy and not enough frog

At least frogs know what to do with their tongues

Is that all I can do? Is that a crutch?

Living afraid is better than dying

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers

He's yelling in a hushed tone

When did living become a word on a checklist?

Nothing's making sense

We seem to have twice as many words

I've taken one too many drinks and my mind turns off

Forgetting that reading isn't always taking

I'm like really hard on myself as a writer

and anyone else I've forgotten to attack

I only go where the wind takes me

A lot of my poems come from forcing meaning onto everyday things

I'm trying to be responsible

A pseudo-poet in velveteen trousers 

This is my demon

My purpose is to follow my dreams in my bare feet

Tears for your face while it thaws.

Compiled by Marianne Hales Harding

Compilation Poem for July 30, 2015: A Jessica Love Fest

Compilation Poem: A Jessica Love Fest

Compiled by Alyssa Wolf

Super Kickass Poem for Friends and Lovers (AKA I think its good; that's why I want to read it)

Last night at a checkstand 

Jacob came in late and

I'm looking at the price of cabbage

He asks me, "Don't you believe in serendipity?"

He didn't want to miss anything, but he missed so much.

can't go home anymore, wherever that is, or ever was,

I want to touch your soul

flammable like a dry savanna

a wildfire

Like a lighter touches paper

A few minutes later it burns out and you laugh

I stand, then sit

the words are orbiting me, just out of reach and out of order

it all feels like rotating

rewind, rewind, rewind

 I must breathe and take a vow of silence

because I failed kindergarten

I'm always the last to know

I have already had too many takers

Be normal!

Let your bald head show

My scrambled egg words come from a mind

that breaks down life into greasy fries

like a paranoid meth head with bottled-up emotion

my scrambled egg words come from a mind

bound to embrace the storm or die

I can't get the words beyond the roof

I drip down off the ceiling of my own mind

my bones are breaking

the struggle of breathing

Can't get my prayers up to heaven

even those with a stutter can sing

I think I know what I'm saying

"Sorry, man, my dad's chicken farm is up the mountain"

when I wake the metaphors work

Maybe I am because I think . . .

We should have been cooking

In the heat of Milwaukee, Cream City

breath in the clouds, feet in the ground

But one sacred jar of plums in raspberry sauce left in the pantry. 

it's not enough. It never was

There are moments when I  beg to dance

a never-ending dance

with room to make mistakes

my feet are planted in two separate places

I'm split down the center

and sometimes anxiety is my dance partner

high above a gravel path

He's passive aggressive tomorrow

Rushing into the world when least expected

with no one to note the time of arrival

I can feel the surf swirling around my ankles  

a  large predator chasing prey

one must be careful about this wildness

I'm scared I'm gonna mess this up; I'm scared of YOU.  

My courage is not a wild dog with yellow eyes--it won't just come

through the marrow in my bones

when I call it

Revelation writing

I will bear the weight like a verse

push the winding roads into the sea

You have to be pretty late to miss the sacrament

a relationship with God

I'm sick of falling in line

missing the sacrament means a total breakdown

of the morning/the mother

A long week of repenting

my imperfections, my scars

my body, this holy ground

an open book in the hands of my maker

Maybe God knows how to be a friend better than I do

He moves through time like my life is a room

God can straighten the furniture no matter how many times I knock it down.

This is me, overcalculating EVERYTHING

But really, I just can't waste any more time . . .

Like a lighter touches paper

Leave no indelible thing behind you

no concrete slab to sweep

You will be the hope I thought you'd be

to slide and glide and qualify

 I hope you remember my name

because if you don't, who will?

And where the kites fly

I'll invite you for a cup of chai

bonded molecules

savoring the moment

sitting cross-legged for as long as we can

I hope you remember my name

in the palm of your hand

because wherever I'm going, I'm already home.

Compilation Poem for July 23, 2015

When I pass through the veil and leave these eyes and ears behind
what message do I hope to send to the world?
I have something to say about tomatoes and corn,
a cup of earl gray and ginger cookies,
a magic waxing and waning.
I imagine the image of two smooth bodies moving across a dance floor
Someday you will see me scaling a mountain in a tutu
but broken people are heavy and her love was not strong enough to hold on.
Although he wanted to scream he has no air to breath
her eyes were sad, like a New York hipster
a shift in stellar position
the best and only means is to be found in a poet's heart
allow your dreams
the government has decided to give each person 167 words to use per day
there are two sides to every story
love is a kick in the face
ordinary everyday touch became as longed for as a first kiss
one day you tease with thoughts that will never leave
when your heart brings you to the darkened door
you keep me locked away from going deep
you were meant to be a host for happiness not a servant for your fears
your light and life shine, spreading cheese happiness
I am afraid of the dark
I wonder what the snake thinks?
such are the fruits of curiosity and reason
these fill the space between neural stars
as I rise from my grave I can see the last hues of the setting sun
beckoning me into the night
like a leathery envelope of the past
spoken like a poem breathing in and out
I need your voice
there is more to this but books close mid-story for a good reason.
I still open your book and end with paper cuts.

Compiled by Laura Smith and Daniel Gladden

Compilation Poems for July 16, 2015 (Yes, That is Plural)

Another SFYS first: two compilation poems for one night!  Our compilation poet, Bonnie Shiffler-Olsen, compiled a found poem for the featured writers (Chadd VanZanten and Russ Beck) as well as for the open mic portion of the night.  Here are both poems!

Fish Lit

by Bonnie Shiffler-Olsen

part i

You don’t even have to go outside.

The bank of a river, a creek in Montana;

I started hearing him everywhere.

Not completely out of thin air,

the old drunk told me about trout fishing

before he eventually killed himself.

Everything long and white, I behold Pittsburg for the first time—

bend a pin. Something about its motion was wrong,

changed a flight of stairs into a creek.

I remember mistaking an old woman

for a trout stream.

There’s always a festival and a photograph

of a pretty girl in a bathing suit—

huge-moving, child-eyes when the hammer clicked back.

It was kind of a friendly look.

part ii

Ten miles after Ketchum, where the good fishing was,

Deanna Durbin, the woman who travels with me,

put a blue rock in the pocket of Trout Fishing in America.

She needed money for something, and the Missouri was frozen over.

I had a childhood fancy—Hemingway and a dozen colored rocks.

The woman cooked all night, her menstrual cramps stone cold.

This went on for months, the menstrual cramps. Forgive me.

part iii

The higher the expectation for catching fish

—they are there.

Everyone has a secret spot, rituals, sacrifices.

The fly simply always produces the confidence in the secret,

and what is secret is sacred.

We hush up all that has to do with faith.

Belief conjures new strings of religion,

turns fishing into something I just can’t get behind.

Testimony orders the chaos,

like farting and tap dancing at the same time will produce a fish.

He’s never wrong and I’m an agnostic angler.

My back is sore from casting.

part iv

It’s a rare sensation,

where I want to end up all along.

___________________________________________________________________________

Prayer of Youth

by Bonnie Shiffler-Olsen 

Spoken like a god, I think I am young,

unsure why I am suddenly on two feet

—it’s probably my fault.

My girlfriend signed me up for this.

I have the emotional asshole of a kid trying not to stink,

a folding chair taking up space,

cupholders that can’t hold cups.

I wake up, in mourning,

missing the sacrament,

and fetal cells born on Easter Sunday.

There’s no one to note time of arrival,

to signal a long week repenting.

I don’t even feel bad.

It only takes one drop of gray to ruin absolutes.

I can run from the cops, from the popular

possession of a penis.

When the wind stops blowing,

my nips are hard companions,

poised like fat pipe bombs

—social misfits,

not in the same league as you.

I promise you lightyears sputtering into flames.

A thousand milliseconds that see us,

not as soul mates, as much a matter of completion,

the fleshy pink tongue

floating in the core of forever.

You weren’t the only thing making me happy.

My young self wore a black miniskirt to my baptism,

immersed in younger youth, but the city pond is empty.

I’m waking up vertical today, because you can’t

go long sleeping without commitment.

These sweaty palms won’t give in

to the scissors in the underwear drawer.

On my tongue bread and water,

sacrament, oral diarrhea.

I keep my damn mouth shut.

The only commitment I’m good at is to

Love and love more. Poems

will have to wait.