Favorite Fridays

February

A Poem in Prose

BY: ANDREW WALKER

It was February. She held her mother’s hand as she walked along the frozen ground, feeling it slip but never falling. She crushed the frozen lake beneath her feet. She had always loved walking on ice. The way it cracked under her feet, painting murals in lines like the veins in the back of her hands. Hands held by her mother so she would not slip. She loved the way it sounded. The crunch. Like bones breaking at the press of a heel. She had always loved walking on ice.

It was February. She was taller now. Bigger. Mother didn’t need to hold her anymore. As she walked and stomped, the ice cracked and crunched. She could see the caged ghosts break free from their toothy prison and dance in front of her eyes. She could feel the ice break slowly at her toes painting murals. The air froze in her cheeks. It stung. A billion icy bees biting her face. It was February. It was a colder February. She took off her gloves and looked at her veins in the back of her hand. Blue, long, aged. Her fingers were long, pulsing icicles waiting for warmth. She pressed them against the mirrored ground. Mamma, she said. The white air around her was still, silent. A dirtied canvas, crumpled and creased, thrown aside. She had always loved walking on ice. Her mother holding her hand. Never letting go. But when the ice broke beneath her, there was no one to hold onto. When the ice broke beneath her, she did not scream. She did not call for help. She did not swim to the surface. As the water froze her lungs she could not scream. She could not call. She could not swim. But she cried. She cried for the ice. She cried for her mother.

She cried because it was February.

Lead and Graphite

Pencil streaking papers

With graphite

But it feels like lead

Because of the strain it puts on my hand

Dragging down my wrist

Forcing the tip against the paper

Forcing out words I don’t want to write

No

No

No

False apologies and words that describe a sadness I do not feel

A lie

I lie

I am lying but I don’t want to

I am being forced to lie by the weight of the pencil scratching itself out onto the crisp white

Destroying the crisp white the way these words will destroy me

No

No

No

It’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault.

10/22/2013

Riley Welch

Creations.

There’s this eagle in the sky

And he just happens to know this guy,

Who knew a good old friend of mine.

And that good old friend used to build signs.

He built them big, he built them grand,

He built them all across the land.

He also built them quite small,

And sometimes very, very tall.

He painted great, bright shades

Burgundies, blues, reds, and suede’s.

They stood out, vibrant against any backdrop

Grassy field, town squares, or corn cash crops.

They started from a nice strong base

He chose cedar and walnut and built with grace

He’d cut the wood and sand it smooth,

He let it follow its natural groove.

Whichever way its grain would slope

He would follow without doubt, only hope,

For he and the wood had become close over time

He knew how to build, how to sculpt, just right

He’d spend hours until the base was perfect

Modest and delicate, never eccentric-

And when every screw was perfectly in place

He’d cover it in a pristine glaze.

Every ounce of effort put in would show

And the wood would sparkle, gleam, glow,

And then, my old friend, well, he’d cover it in canvas

He’d stretch it tight, like the petals of a fresh polyanthus.

He’d hand mix paints from red, yellow, and blue

He’d let the paint guide him – if you could, wouldn’t you?

He had a gift, a passion, you could say

His signs were is art, they varied, they swayed.

No two signs were ever the same

But I think that he just liked it that way.

And if you’d ever ask, he’d say they built themselves

They formed on their own, nothing to do with himself.

And his whole life, he made these signs alive

From wood, glaze, canvas, and paint they were derived.

He made them, and they made him

Symbiotic, co-existing, it was good luck, just a whim!

And so that eagle in the sky

Who’d swoop and dip and knew that guy
Who knew that good old friend of mine

Would perch and sit on a grand sign,

Little did he know my good old friend

Had built there, every crook and bend

And placed it where the street would end

So the eagle could rest in it’s descent.

Riley Welch

2013 

Favorite Fridays

Halfway

BY: AUSTEN RAMSEY

I am always stuck right in the middle;

In between the talent and talentless;

Candid and very much noncommittal;

Relaxed, at peace, and terribly distressed.

I love who I am and treat her badly;

She has great cheekbones and a double chin;

Distaste for the world but loves it madly;

A sad, sentient soul inside thick skin.

I’ve been told I am smart, but I’m failing

To be enough for any one person;

I’m a healthy young girl, but I’m ailing

And I’m not sure yet if it will worsen.

I keep having thoughts; they say I’m addicted

To a dream of myself, in a life less afflicted.

Monster

And I remember things that happened five ears ago like yesterday

And I fear that life is speeding by

That life is racing and I can’t control it

And then it’s going to be over

And I am going to be dust

And everyone I know will be dust

And we will become a thin dust

Rimming the Earth

Scattered on tables

And picked up by rags

And tossed in the wash

And whisked down the drains

And swept into the ocean

Or clogging up pipes

And no one will even know it’s me

Or who I am

Or what I did

Not even showing up on the radar of life

And it’s worthless worry

But it exists

With or without acknowledgment.

10/13/14

Riley Welch