Caroline Weaver ’18
This month’s collection from Poetry Club focuses on the idea of change (seasonal, good, bad, lack of, etc). In Poetry Club, you have opportunities to write as a group, individually in the group setting, or at home to share later at a meeting. I hope you enjoy the beautiful poems put forth by the club and its members.
Mice have qualities much akin
to the shape of happy creations.
When the children fight amongst snowmen,
they reminisce of days past winter.
Now grown, they have faults when they gaze at
the imperfections of unformed creations.
And in the spring, they die as mice,
Feeding the past,
Sensing the approaching chaos as the seasons end.
A Winged Change
By: Caroline Weaver 18’
I admire the butterfly.
Willing to do what humans can not do:
change, alter, embark.
Leap into the unknown where upon arrival
realizes it was a one-way ticket.
I have such an intriguing time sitting on
my bed watching a moth try to
escape my window.
It’s wings like arteries
maps to the top of its fingertips,
trying to find a way out of the dingy
room it once flourished in.
Gently fluttering in the breeze
from the cracks in the roof and the
holes in the mind.
I admired the butterfly,
but I am amazed by the moth.
It’s capability to be the ugly stepsister
to be drab,
the homeless guy on the corner
you walk briskly past,
the friend that you didn’t realize meant so much.
I was too focused on being a butterfly,
I did not realize I became the moth.
Excerpt from: A Poem to My Past Self
By: Amelia Boscov 16’
you learn to live for the numbers
you learn to despise numbers
you learn to love words
you learn to write words
and read words
you learn to be words
you learn to comfort yourself with words
but you are made of numbers
and your lit teacher hates when you repeat words
your lit teacher hates when you repeat words
once a poetic device now a crutch for poor writing
I have let myself become a device
a thoughtful, attentive crutch
for my poetic nature
each new time I print the same words
they hold a whole new meaning
I am comforted by the changing repetitivity of repeating words
of “you are, you are, you are, you are”
don’t trust the people who tell you,
you are, you are,
you are the exception
By: Joe Simon 16’
Staring into the pitch black mirror, twenty two minutes.
Things start again, and nothing changes.
Alone and moving, passerby after passerby.
Am i close? Am i going right?
I leave, twenty four minutes.
This will all be over soon.
A hateful haze and the lights are on.
Fifty minutes, not one flaw.
And nothing has changed.
Trinity restored, lights in the distance.
Can’t move forward, but never move back.
And nothing will ever change.