2011 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
Choices
by Ben Coffey, junior English ed major
There’s many a choice in life’s calculator
I ask, “Do I use seven to build or destroy?”
I have a feeling He’s been asked this before
With the numbers, I am at constant war
I can have the world, I’m an American boy!
There’s many a choice in life’s calculator
But are numbers in Haiti or the Ivory Shore
different from numbers in Illinois?
I have a feeling He’s been asked this before
Do we multiply prosperity or push for
a division as did Helen of Troy?
There’s many a choice in life’s calculator
Is the white fence truly a victory score
Or just a time-tested capitalist ploy?
I have a feeling He’s been asked this before
We created money, then war, then the poor
When total is pressed, do we deserve to enjoy
the many choices from life’s calculator?
I have a feeling He’s been asked this before.
2011 Readers’ Choice Award Winnesr
Dear Mom
by Brooke Weisenburger, junior English ed major
I never believed you when you said
that mothers know best.
It was I who knew everything,
because they were my friends,
because Derek was my boyfriend,
because it was my life,
not yours.
But then again,
I get my stubborn head
from you.
I regret not spending that last night
with you and Dad and Ryan.
Going to dinner, then
watching the UMKC men’s team.
But as you may remember,
Derek demanded my devotion
those days.
Like I said,
I never believed what
you said.
The time you told me
my friends were not true friends,
The time you told me
Derek was becoming too attached,
and sucking the life out of me,
The time you told me,
I’d never appreciate you
until you were gone.
Well, you were right, Mom.
I need you, I admit it,
and you’re not here
to say those words
“I told you so.”
But somehow, I can still hear you
say them anyway.
I wouldn’t have accepted
this compliment many years ago
when I knew it all,
but my proudest days are the days
when Dad tells me
that I am so much like you.
Hope
by Dusty Kitchen, junior English ed major
The world likes to tell us no,
to tell us we’re just not good enough.
It likes to tell us dreams
are impossible, and a happy ending,
that’s just something for fairy tales.
It likes to remind us of our
weaknesses and the goals
they continue to keep us from.
The world holds us over fire,
just waiting for us to burn.
-
But what the world hates. . .
is hope. A small disease
that crawls through us faster
than anything it ever held.
A virus that breaks us
from the fear of failure,
the fear of falling, and
tells us to get back up again.
It’s something dreamers catch,
and pass it on and on.
It can shake mountains,
drain the seas, and with
a little help from god,
bring fire down from the skies.
-
It makes the world tremble.
To know that you can
have so much pain,
but still hold on to hope.
It’s your only weapon.
Don’t let go, don’t be scared. . .
just . . . hope
Country Nights
by Lane Allison, junior business major
At home I like to see the stars at night
Because at home there is no other light,
The stars are clear as water from a spring
I listen to the coyotes howl and sing,
While lying on my sleeping bag in peace
My dog will sit beside without a leash,
Through time we fall asleep below the sky
While night goes on and shooting stars fly by.
2010 Best of the Poetry Month Project Winner
DARK POOL
by Jordan Roquemore, Jr., English Major
Apart from the mind,
Freedom weighs nothing.
Like floating silk,
It rests upon air.
If I could create it,
Freedom in a form:
It would stretch forever,
Buried deep below.
A motionless dark pool,
Unclear but for shadows.
I would gracefully descend,
Swimming that murky infinite.
My unfettered form,
Gliding downward eternally.
Freedom would find me,
Lost in self and soul.
2010 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
[UNTITLED]
by Dan Eells, Sr., Information Technology Major
cold windy evening
desolate street
the only place open, a small quiet bar
fluorescent lights
shadowy windows
fog of smoke coats the floors and walls
the room
smells of beer and cigarettes
the people; wasting away
glass by glass
the old man
drooling
pissing himself
by the pool table
his wife laughs
leans forward
shoots the 8 ball into a corner pocket
young couples
sit and drink
go home and fight
make up; have sex
return
and do it all over again
the table of forty-somethings
looking at the table of twenty-somethings
wondering where it all went
the bartender a young woman
wasted by a man who gave her a child
she had—something
now a distant dream
she sees only her own sorrow
as she passes
another drink
in the back, hanging from the ceiling
a red glowing sign
EXIT
TWO POEMS
by Audrey Secker, Jr., Communication Major
Varo Poem
The woman and the man
Emerging from the corners of my mind
Hold tight to the strands of deliberation
As another, threatens to cut them away.
The ideas and dreams
Like notes on a scale
There one minute,
The next—
Just birds flittering away
And nesting in the crevices of my psyche.
The empty flasks of thought
Lie haphazardly on the floor
While the smoke from
My overheated brain
Seeps slowly through the floor
Towards the ceiling
And out of my head.
Comfortable Silence
Our likes and dislikes,
Our hopes and dreams,
Have changed over the years,
And our love has followed suit.
It has matured and grown
With the passing of each day.
The comfortableness has entrapped us
Like animals in a cage.
We’ve moved past the stage
Of random acts of kindness and affection.
No more flowers or gifts with no explanation,
You don’t see the point,
The need for wooing me is long gone.
Your deep brown eyes,
The color of my morning coffee,
Rarely look at me with longing and pure desire
Like they used to.
But now look at me with
Understanding and a deeper passion
That only comes with time.
The long slow kisses,
Now short emotionless pecks,
And a few robotic ‘I love you’s’
Are sprinkled throughout our days.
Our conversations,
Like those of acquaintances meeting on the street,
Meaningless chatter about the weather and our day.
The awkward silences of our first dates,
No longer invade our time together,
But have evolved into a comfortable silence
Settling over us like a blanket.
RAILROAD HOUSE
by Allison Snyder, Fr., English Major
Window shut,
drapes pulled down.
A silent stillness
overtakes the countryside,
waiting for the roar
of the train to go by.
The sky is trapped
in the time of sunset,
causing shadows on the house,
making it look menacing.
The house stands dark and
Ominous in the setting sun.
Not a soul in sight
but if one is close enough,
they may just see
inquisitive eyes staring back.
But before they can look again,
the eyes disappear into the dark.
The house is warm but scary
in its unworldly beauty.
Luring people’s gazes
but they don’t come close,
afraid that a nightmare
might run out and get them.
The shadows continue to dance,
making illusions,
until menacing nobodies
seem to appear.
Fear makes overactive
imaginations run wild,
until the light of day
chases the shadows over the hills.
2009 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
ACROSS THE TRACKS
by Audrey Secker, Soph., Communication Major
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.
2009 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
WHY I WILL NOT GET OUT OF BED
by Benjamin Denton, Sr., Communication and Sociology Major
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
HARVESTING AN OLD FOOL’S PARADISE
by Eric Sader, Sr., Communication, Philosophy & Religion, and Political Science Major
Life begets a greatness impossible to capture.
No losing decisions, just deciding losers,
Too many people deserving of what you tender.
To live for all, prospering none,
Appeals to the mass grassroots substantiate no one.
Dyadic curse to meek, dyadic wonders more,
No blame for the exclusion of those seeking further.
Unaware of tragic love, aware of pleasure only,
Mainstream ignorance spurs jealousy among the known.
Resting acceptance, accepting respite,
To fight the juggernaut but brings splendor down to nil.
Beautiful melancholy, melancholy of beauty,
Part embracement of the great seen ends securing more.
BLACKBERRIES
by Kristen Kirkman, Jr., English Major
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
2008 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
VAPOR LOCK
by Jordan Shay, Sr., Communication Major
She remembers
July as a quilt, suffocating
the cracked dirt, her father barbecuing
in the backyard where mosquitoes swarm.
The chick lounges on the hot
sidewalk by the pool,
aqua and smooth on top,
coloring her toes a brilliant orange.
Megan, six days wiser,
arrives in a cloud of dust,
storming down a dirt road.
The chick envies her green
eyes and round breasts.
Megan hides cigarettes
in the glove box of the ’89 Dodge Dynasty,
gold and glorious with a tendency to
vapor lock.
So the chick’s mom won’t
see, Megan waits ’till they pull
away to pack the Marlboro Lights
Casey Struble bought for her at the Mini Mart.
Methodically, beautifully, she smokes
arms and fingers thin and golden.
Buttery seats gum to the chick’s bare
legs. The Ja Rule tape curses, taunting
the girls to do something crazy. They drink
raspberry Sublime, driving in the dusty heat
taking corners without slowing down.
Sometimes the chick is back in the Dynasty.
She has a fever and is rushing to get nowhere,
with someone else at the wheel.
The golden beast lurches and coughs,
teetering as they cross a narrow bridge.
Her knuckles clench around the sticky seat,
the music is too loud
and the dust too thick
to see where she is going.
2008 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
DETONATOR
by Jessica Foulke, Sr., History Major
He reminds her of summer.
Her flip flop-tanned feet
dangling bare.
Moist palms cling to the
plastic harness,
as the hydraulic lungs
hiss their inhale,
ready to thrust her
straight into the air.
She’ll be able to see for miles.
IN JAPAN, CALLED A BENTO
by Adrielle Harvey, Jr., Communication Major
A boy thinks his mom
is the best as he stares down
at the face of Mozart.
Every day, he opens
his lunch box to find
something new.
Yesterday, it was
a small blob of yellow
rice shaped like a dinosaur
with okra and seaweed
spotting its body.
The boy’s mom paints
a mural of food
with bits of fish,
berries, and vegetables
within the lunch box,
in Japan, called
a bento.
2007 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
SOME DANCE TO FORGET
by Jessica Foulke, Jr., History Major
The radio pops as she turns the dial.
A voice suddenly crackles
a steady song.
Glancing to her right she sees
him.
Dull green eyes beneath gentle lids,
head lulling back and forth,
the road’s rhythm its guide.
Only breath escaping,
silent laughter.
Pushing her arm out of open window,
she moves her fingers through
the wind’s hair.
She focuses on white lines in motion.
Black asphalt.
She is already home.
2007 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
SIESTA
by Jordan Shay, Jr., Communication Major
Head on his chest, her saliva pools,
seeping into his argyle sweater.
He snores, and the purrs rise from the
depths of a belly full of chicken and tea.
The broken recliner creaks, their bodies
huddled under the denim blanket
they used last night to escape
the eyes of his roommate, who sleeps
’til three and has a different
personality on Tuesdays.
Her wrists are white and her pinky
entwines with his finger, the one with the
band that means eternity.
They drift, neither dreaming to leave this
cocoon warmed by golden honey.
Through the wall, a guitar sings,
mellow in an hour so orange and pink,
singing, an uninvited guest to their
afternoon siesta.
When he wakes, her lips are parted,
breathing the rhythm of sleep, her hair
fanned, blonde on his black sweater. He
spots the place on his sweater above his
heart that she has unknowingly watered. He
kisses her forehead and closes his eyes,
feeling the weight of her head on his chest.
DON’T STEP THERE
by Mandy Morgan, Sr., English Major
Don’t step there.
I know you’ve stepped
there before
but this time
might do it.
See how the wood is splintered?
How it cries
when her heel
pushes it?
I know she
has stepped there
before.
But your heel
grinds deeper.
I can’t forgive
your feet.
2006 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
BOOKSHELF
by Amanda Snell Keith, Sr., English and Theatre Major
I like the quiet patience of this shelf of books,
a procession of dusty old men
waiting to divulge their deepest theories,
every binding a swollen chest.
First, I only venture to touch them,
running a finger along each spine,
testing how smooth or rough the skin.
They dare me to open them.
I accept: one by one, I listen
for the soft crinkling of the glue
loosening its hold on each page,
and then the weighty silence of words.
My own chest swells with foolish envy;
these bright passages should be my own.
I stare at the rows,
imagining where I will fit,
a thin spine, though solid,
wondering who will lift me
off the shelf.
2006 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
DEEPER
by Mandy Morgan, Jr., English Major
There is beauty–
And here it is
Beneath the cracked floorboards
Behind the rusted hinges
Soft and slow
An old whisper
Here it is
A tell-tale heart
Lacking a sordid story
A record of life
Kept by death
Written in shadows
Painted in flames
Here it is
A reeking lesion
Hinting of roses
A silent song
Celebrated by voices
Cracked in their comfort
Weathered by years
A cunning art
Painted with blood
What is life
But a double-edged sword?
HEY, GOD
by Jessica Foulke, Soph., History
I have something to say to you.
Don’t give me that I know what you’re thinking crap,
because you and both know
what a steaming pile of b.s. that is.
I’m done listening to your word.
You listen to mine.
Why do you punish me constantly?
Ever heard of a break?
Whoever said god doesn’t give people more than they can handle needs to be shot.
We’ll see how they handle that.
god, I am tired of you picking on me because I’m littler than you.
I am tired of being your Saturday Night Live,
your Must-See Thursday.
You made me poor, god, you made me poor.
I wore my clothes until the pant legs were too short
and the shirts were too tight.
Sometimes our phone would get turned off.
I had to borrow money from my friends
just to eat lunch.
To top it all off, you incredible genius you,
you had to go and make me
ambitious.
You made me want to go somewhere, be someone.
Does anyone see a problem here?
The drive to make it without the means to make it?
Nice god, good planning.
And what’s with your killing people I care about? Huh?
Sarah, Ryan? What’d they ever do to you?
Did he flip you off once?
Is it because she was Muslim?
Because he was a Catholic?
Please explain, because I’m confused.
Only the good die young. Vomit.
I’m good, god, why haven’t you killed me yet?
I obey traffic regulations,
I eat my cauliflower and spinach,
I make my bed.
Must be time to die, right?
And why don’t you talk to me, god?
Everyone else on your green earth seems to have
heard from you or gotten a voicemail
or something.
Are you even there?
Are you out golfing with Homer and Lincoln?
Xbox with daVinci? What?
Isn’t it great, god, that you’ve got no plan for me.
Already given up,
like everybody else?
Wouldn’t surprise me.
Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.
2005 Best of the Poetry Month Project Award Winner
ABOUT MUSES
by Amanda Snell Keith, Jr., English
The thing about Muses is
you have to ask them nicely,
invoke them,
cajole them,
feed them your own ruddy soul.
They are only available at certain times of the day
and take long lunch breaks.
I knew a guy who picked up his Muses at the bar.
I tried to tell him that Muses don’t like smooth-talkers.
I tried to tell him that they like to do the talking.
I see used Muses in a row at the bar all the time,
preferring to drink themselves into a generous stupor
rather than give their words away freely.
And we meek poets who call for our Muses
in less abrasive places (park benches, twin beds, library carrels),
we suffer their mistrust.
Neither threats of false attribution
nor bribes of immortality have proven useful.
I used to be the mother of a million Muse babies,
reveling in their snot strings and drool bubbles,
their midnight prodding subsided only by rocking them to sleep
with a gentle rhythm, the hum of small poems in my throat.
And now, abandoned by my Muses
who are looking for better work
in coffee shops and on magazine covers,
I yearn to be reborn
a Muse in myself.
2005 Readers’ Choice Award Winners
ON BLACKBERRIES
by Jessica Foulke, Fr., History/Political Science
My mother
told me once,
in a steady voice
like the whirring of a needle
on a sewing machine:
“Don’t count your blackberries before they’re picked, Jessica,
and don’t put all of them into one basket.”
She smiled with a wink.
We giggled,
as the golden retriever
licked my toes.
I sipped pink lemonade,
the clouds rushing in
over a barely visible cliff,
covering the orange hues
of the horizon.
BLUE GLASS
by Linden Wilson, Soph., Art and English
The glow of petal and fire
Burns away
Dark expectations the world holds.
Always, a conglomeration of hurried jobs, freeways, malls.
In the clear mirror of self,
I see you – you, me, all;
He, she, them; we, everyone –
Cells of a body.
In the glass
The image you least expected.
Like a turn-coat your mind
Shows you someone else’s face.
The glass beams,
Shatters – twinkling, sparkling, falling,
And with it, light, dark, knowns and unknowns,
Fall before each other with no expectations
Or fore-knowledge.
