Welcome to the Fifth Annual Poetry Month Project!

April is National Poetry Month. To celebrate the occasion, the McPherson College English Department has sponsored the Poetry Month Project every April since 2005. Join the celebration! Share a favorite poem. Submit a poem you’ve written. Subscribe to the RSS feed, or just visit this site regularly to keep up with the daily submissions.

An(other) Original Poem for Thursday, April 30

Lil Red

by Brolyn Spangler

Prowling about, amongst
Oceans of faces, I
Picked a bright,
Little red beacon
Of a light to follow.

Unaware I slunk
From a distance, every detail,
My, what keen eyes, could see.
Short skirt, black stalks,
Clay-mud stirred hair.

Cherry-drop cheeks
When she passed by,
Were accented by the brilliant
Bic pen red sweater that
All seemed to glow when she spoke.

And bid me to follow
‘n listen to where,
My, what acute ears could hear,
I might acquaint her later.

Minutes passed and,
As promised, red had arrived.
Wading girlfriends, social circles
And handsome would-be’s,
Introductions were free.

No one would suspect
Later that with,
My, what cunning mind I have,
She would be found,
  Alone
    Shredded
      Bloodied
        Broken hearted
          Consumed.

Original Poem for Thursday, April 30

Kimberly

by Jessica Arnold

I calmly walk to the bathroom stall, flip flops hanging limply from my feet.
I pause to smile stiffly at a chubby little girl writing a story in a pew,
“See my unicorn!”
She doesn’t see my clenched jaw, or notice
my eyes are a little too bright.
She chatters happily; I smile and murmur something encouraging, then
softly tread to the stall and lock the door.

I stare at the hazy reflection in the green gloss of the door.
I sink down and sit heavily.
Count the tiles. Keep it together.
My face falls to my hands as I stare at the floor,
fingers threading and tightening warm brown strands.
Count the tiles.
Don’t register; the tiles are wet.
Count the tiles.
A strangled sob; tiles blur into stained glass
Count. The. Tiles.

An image—
Curly blonde hair, small frame, face dusted with freckles.
Toothy grins and lanky, goofy runs in bright pink crocs.
She climbs awkwardly, sweetly, onto my lap and winces as she bends.
Tiny ribs blooming blue and purple bruises.

My eyes red, my face calm, I emerge from the bathroom.
My boss glances at me as I pass his office and he gives me a slight nod.
He’s on the phone, my report in his hand.

I hear the sound of crocs slapping the hallway.
A giggle. “Miss Jessie!”
A leap—wild, thin arms clutch my torso as I hoist her carefully up in my arms.
She buries her face in my neck and I tighten my hold.
My world shrinks and collapses around one bruised little girl.

The door opens and I can’t move.
As I watch her mother yank her away, I have never felt so helpless.

 

---

Jessica Arnold is senior with a double major in English and theatre.

Original Poem for Wednesday, April 29

Mississippi

by Nathan Witter

High over head
Flies a dove
Searching for roost
Only to find
The waters are calm
But still stretch
As far as eye can see

Unlike the mythic story of old
This flood, they knew would come
The levies broke
Muddy water rushed in
Swept up the home
Of an old man

Normally parked deep in a lot
On wheels it sat
Until that night
It started to rain
Then rained some more
Until the water
Rose from its banks

On his roof
The old man sat
His three sons are grown
And will worry about him
but he knew this could happen
he’s not a stupid man
he built in a flood plain
or rather parked

The old man smiles
White teeth glimmering
Through snowy beard
As he spies a church
On distant plain

Some hours later
With a crunch
The home comes to rest
On Mt. Ararat church
The irony of it
Makes the old man laugh
As he lights a cigar

 

---

Nathan Witter is a junior history major.

Original Poem for Tuesday, April 28

Why I Will Not Get Out of Bed

by Benjamin Denton

Sadness growing
Night never ending
Girlfriend leaving
Parents fighting
Brother crying
Eyes closing
Heart beat slowing
Body not moving
Why I will never get out of bed
Because I’m dead

 

---

Benjamin Denton is a junior from Oklahoma City with a double major in communication: journalism and sociology.

Favorite Poem for Tuesday, April 28

Bowl of Oranges

by Conor Oberst

The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed. There was a loophole in my dreaming, so I got out of it.
And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open.
Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just been.
So I dressed myself and left then, out into the gray streets.
But everything seemed different and completely new to me.
The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body.
And each person I encountered, I couldn’t wait to meet.
I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health.
I said, “{I am terribly sorry but} there is nothing I can do for you
{that} you can’t do for yourself.”
He said, “Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would help.”
So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt.
He said, “I think I’m cured. No, in fact, I’m sure.
Thank you Stranger, for your therapeutic smile.”
So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone is alone.
And your eyes must do some raining if you are ever going to grow.
But when crying don’t help and you can’t compose yourself.
It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or simple song of hope.
That is why I’m singing…
Baby don’t worry cause now I got your back. And every time you feel like crying,
I’m gonna try and make you laugh. And if I can’t, if it just hurts too bad,
then we will wait for it to pass and I will keep you company
through those days so long and black.
And we’ll keep working on the problem we know we’ll never solve
Of Love’s uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole.
But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall.
Then I think we would see the beauty.
Then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges,
like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

 

---

Mark Shobe is a senior music major from Cherryvale, Kansas.

Original Poem for Monday, April 27

Blackberries

by Kristen Kirkman

Blackberries remind me
Of the night on the cliff
When Jacob convinced me
To jump

“Go hard or go home”
Jacob said to me
“If you want to hang with the boys,
You have to cliff-dive tonight”

My best friend
Gave me an ultimatum
Jump off the cliff
Or lose him

His friends
Didn’t like me
Said I needed a test
Of loyalty

How far
Would I go?
To keep him,
Anything

I licked my lips,
Looked out at the clouds
Heard the voice of my mother
Telling me not to be foolish

I walked to the edge
Proud
Looked down at the water
Nauseous

Wind tangled hair
Across my face
I breathed in
The scent of blackberries

Determined
I dove off the edge
Into the icy water -
My world twisted

Stomach
Doing somersaults
Heart
Beating fast

Crash landing
Sinking deeper
So cold
No air

“Kick”
My brain screamed
I broke the surface
Gasping

Cheering from the cliff
Jacob on the shore
Hand held out
To me

 

---

Kristen Kirkman is a junior English major from Oklahoma City.

Original Poem for Friday, April 24

Across the Tracks

by Audrey Secker

The sand feels gritty and dry in my mouth
I stand up slowly
Wiping the sand off my clothes and hair
Spitting it out of my mouth.

I hear the laughter
And the comments from the other boys.
Their words smacking me in the face,
Harder than the sand when they pushed me into it.

Their white faces hateful,
Their eyes pitiless,
Their laughter, cruel
Reminding me of the difference
between my side of the tracks and theirs.

 

---

Audrey Secker is a sophomore communication major from Lancaster, Penn.

Original Poem for Thursday, April 23

American Poverty

by Amanda Pangburn

It’s not “we’ve no place to live.”
It’s eating bean soup,
To keep the house,
For now.
It’s not “We’ll buy you new clothes.”
It’s making do
With what mother made
And hoping no one notices.
It’s not “the baby’s an addict.”
It’s we don’t eat,
So he can.
But it still isn’t enough.
It’s not “we’ll take her to the Doctor.”
It’s what can we do for her?
If she gets sick enough
The E.R. will cover it.
It’s not “we dropped out.”
It’s teachers didn’t care.
They gave up, Deemed us “LD”
And blamed us for their low scores.
It’s not “we didn’t try.”
It’s we tried, and tried,
And tried,
And failed.
And now it’s not “GUILTY!”
It’s we have no better place to go.
A bed, lights, running water,
And maybe even a job.

 

---

Amanda Pangburn is a junior agriculture from Alabama.

Favorite Poem for Thursday, April 23

Crow Is Walking

by Grace Butcher

Crow is walking
to see things at ground level,
the landscape as new under his feet
as the air is old under his wings.

He leaves the dead rabbit waiting—
it’s a given; it’ll always be there—
and walks on down the dirt road,

admires the pebbles,
how they sparkle in the sun;

checks out his reflection
in a puddle full of sky
which reminds him
of where he’s supposed to be,

but he’s beginning to like
the way the muscles move in his legs
and the way his wings feel so comfortable
folded back and resting.

He thinks he might be beautiful,
the sun lighting his back
with purple and green.

Faint voices from somewhere far ahead
roll like dust down the road towards him.
He hurries a little.

His tongue moves in his mouth;
legends of language move in his mind.

His beak opens.
He tries a word.

 

---

Bruce Clary posted this favorite poem.

Original Poem for Wednesday, April 22

Make Believe

by Tyler Stevenson

No more is there a you and me.
Together Forever turned out to be a lie.
Your words were nothing but Make Believe.

Our love has now deceased.
And I’m sad now that it has died.
No more is there a you and me.

Those words now mean nothing to me.
They now come out as hopeless cries.
Your words were nothing but make believe.

You said I’m the one you need.
But it seems you left me behind.
No more is there a you and me.

Your words are now dead guarantees.
And in hell they shall fry.
Your words were nothing but make believe.

I guess it was never meant to be.
There couldn’t be a you and I.
No more is there a you and me.
Your words were nothing but Make Believe.

 

---

Tyler Stevenson is a freshman psychology major from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Tyler previously published “An Angel” as part of the Poetry Month Project.