Friday, October 31, 2014

Favorite Fridays


A Poem in Prose


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.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

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
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
It’s not my fault.
It’s not my fault.


Riley Welch

Monday, October 27, 2014


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

Friday, October 24, 2014

Favorite Fridays



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.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


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.


Riley Welch