Spencer Benjamin
PennWest University--Edinboro
The Desk
PennWest University--Edinboro
The Desk
Journals littered with words
Pages, pages, pages
Words written, never spoken
Pages, pages, pages
The desk had gotten older over the years
Where you used to sit
With pages, pages, pages
Burn them, forget about them
But the words never leave
They're in the air
Burned into every inch of this desk
Burned into every memory you left
Choking me
The pages swallow me entirely
Into the hole you left
The words on the pages
Are embedded into my skin
The chalk from the chalkboard
Stings the back of my throat
Papercuts left on my skin
Mimics the ones you carried
When you sat here
At the old desk
With the pages, pages, pages.
Pages, pages, pages
Words written, never spoken
Pages, pages, pages
The desk had gotten older over the years
Where you used to sit
With pages, pages, pages
Burn them, forget about them
But the words never leave
They're in the air
Burned into every inch of this desk
Burned into every memory you left
Choking me
The pages swallow me entirely
Into the hole you left
The words on the pages
Are embedded into my skin
The chalk from the chalkboard
Stings the back of my throat
Papercuts left on my skin
Mimics the ones you carried
When you sat here
At the old desk
With the pages, pages, pages.
Spencer Benjamin is a senior Illustration student at PennWest Edinboro with a minor in creative writing and have one self-published book. Writing is a beautiful way to express yourself and the world around you. Benjamin writes, "Reading stories helps to expand your mindset and learn more about the world or escape from it."
Anna Craig
PennWest University--Global/Clarion
PennWest University--Global/Clarion
Black Fire
You say she's loud and hyper like it's wrong.
Her feelings are too big for your own liking.
Her curiosity has fueled her all along,
yet if she questions your ways, it’s "fighting."
Ingesting your words tastes to me like acid.
Her immense likeness to me blows my mind.
‘Cause I was praised for being well-rounded,
but my “fierce girl” is belittled and maligned.
Recognizing myself in my children
should evoke joy in me, a sense of pride.
But if my spirit is covered by her black skin
it proves fatal; this world expects her to hide!
So, I teach her to stand with her middle fingers up,
And to find strength in who she is; let her spirit erupt!
Her feelings are too big for your own liking.
Her curiosity has fueled her all along,
yet if she questions your ways, it’s "fighting."
Ingesting your words tastes to me like acid.
Her immense likeness to me blows my mind.
‘Cause I was praised for being well-rounded,
but my “fierce girl” is belittled and maligned.
Recognizing myself in my children
should evoke joy in me, a sense of pride.
But if my spirit is covered by her black skin
it proves fatal; this world expects her to hide!
So, I teach her to stand with her middle fingers up,
And to find strength in who she is; let her spirit erupt!
To Daddy
My time barely began before yours was over.
Seven measly years came and went.
I may not recall the distinct sound of your laughter,
Or the look on your face when you were mad.
But you whisked me around, while I stood on your feet,
and you rocked me in your big, comfy chair.
I remember Bob Seger floating from the speaker,
and the rumble in your chest against my ear.
You did “anything for your baby girl,” like
when you let me be “boss” of my older brother.
Or the time you scrunched your long legs
just to fit with me in our tiny kiddy pool.
Those precious, irreplaceable moments in time
shaped my image of what a father should be.
Even with your knowledge of impending death,
I was sheltered from the unfathomable fear.
I thought the milkshakes you drank were to “fatten you up,”
so, you would be the next Santa. But they were full
of the nourishment that Cancer stole from your body.
That giant machine in the hallway with a long, wound cord
wasn’t just a cool toy I got to flip the black switch on.
No, it really took the job of your tired, blackened lungs.
I’m thankful for the time that I spent with you,
though it could never feel like enough. But
I think of you every time I use my son’s middle name,
and when my daughters give me that innocent look
that I know I used to splash on my face for you.
Seven measly years came and went.
I may not recall the distinct sound of your laughter,
Or the look on your face when you were mad.
But you whisked me around, while I stood on your feet,
and you rocked me in your big, comfy chair.
I remember Bob Seger floating from the speaker,
and the rumble in your chest against my ear.
You did “anything for your baby girl,” like
when you let me be “boss” of my older brother.
Or the time you scrunched your long legs
just to fit with me in our tiny kiddy pool.
Those precious, irreplaceable moments in time
shaped my image of what a father should be.
Even with your knowledge of impending death,
I was sheltered from the unfathomable fear.
I thought the milkshakes you drank were to “fatten you up,”
so, you would be the next Santa. But they were full
of the nourishment that Cancer stole from your body.
That giant machine in the hallway with a long, wound cord
wasn’t just a cool toy I got to flip the black switch on.
No, it really took the job of your tired, blackened lungs.
I’m thankful for the time that I spent with you,
though it could never feel like enough. But
I think of you every time I use my son’s middle name,
and when my daughters give me that innocent look
that I know I used to splash on my face for you.
Painful Salvation
I trudged forward to the doorway,
I couldn’t stomach getting any closer.
Smoke wafted from my mother’s husband,
an instant verbal assault flung my way.
“You’re such a piece of shit, and
you will never be more than that.”
I’d heard those lines before.
But the shots hit their mark, and
poison still found its way into my blood.
Foul and vulgar retorts boiled under my skin.
With an aversion to a bloodied lip,
I held my breath to keep them in.
Rage, like larva, grew and stretched;
transformed and tried to crawl out.
When he’d emptied his arsenal of insults,
I floated into the bathroom.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror,
and Desperation stared back.
A sliver of silver caught my eye,
a glint of possible relief.
My shaking hands reached for reprieve.
One slice through my fleshy upper arm,
and I exhaled. My coiling rage and hurt
dripped, leaving a warm trail down my skin.
My vision cleared, and a
single tear escaped as the
incessant pounding in my head ceased.
I couldn’t stomach getting any closer.
Smoke wafted from my mother’s husband,
an instant verbal assault flung my way.
“You’re such a piece of shit, and
you will never be more than that.”
I’d heard those lines before.
But the shots hit their mark, and
poison still found its way into my blood.
Foul and vulgar retorts boiled under my skin.
With an aversion to a bloodied lip,
I held my breath to keep them in.
Rage, like larva, grew and stretched;
transformed and tried to crawl out.
When he’d emptied his arsenal of insults,
I floated into the bathroom.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror,
and Desperation stared back.
A sliver of silver caught my eye,
a glint of possible relief.
My shaking hands reached for reprieve.
One slice through my fleshy upper arm,
and I exhaled. My coiling rage and hurt
dripped, leaving a warm trail down my skin.
My vision cleared, and a
single tear escaped as the
incessant pounding in my head ceased.
Anna Craig will graduate this December with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Interdisciplinary Studies and a minor in Literature. She is a secretary in a preschool with a before-and-after program for elementary students and the mom of four beautiful children.
Evelyn L. Green
PennWest University--Global
PennWest University--Global
Ghost Called Centralia
The town was small and the hills were green,
but underfoot was a spark unseen.
The coal ignites from a careless start,
now fire gnaws at the old town’s heart.
The smoke seeps up and the ground gives way,
what once was whole now begins to fray.
A village lost in ash and heat,
where homes once stood, empty streets.
In hushed tones carelessly brushed aside,
the whispers of a flame all but denied.
Officials claimed there was no cause,
as cracks grew wide revealing their flaws.
But carbon clouds, they snaked and crept,
through silent ground the town left inept.
Families choked on fumes unseen,
a waking nightmare where hopes had been.
History burns as years pass by,
with each new crack a quiet sigh.
Forgotten now beneath the flame,
Centralia fades with growing fame.
Once vibrant lives now lost to time,
echoes linger a ghostly rhyme.
A town that stood now left to mourn,
where shadows dance and dreams are torn.
Centralia breathes where nightmares unwind,
Silent Hill’s whispers from shadows aligned.
Centralia now waits in silence bound,
this ghost town wears its great sorrow proud.
but underfoot was a spark unseen.
The coal ignites from a careless start,
now fire gnaws at the old town’s heart.
The smoke seeps up and the ground gives way,
what once was whole now begins to fray.
A village lost in ash and heat,
where homes once stood, empty streets.
In hushed tones carelessly brushed aside,
the whispers of a flame all but denied.
Officials claimed there was no cause,
as cracks grew wide revealing their flaws.
But carbon clouds, they snaked and crept,
through silent ground the town left inept.
Families choked on fumes unseen,
a waking nightmare where hopes had been.
History burns as years pass by,
with each new crack a quiet sigh.
Forgotten now beneath the flame,
Centralia fades with growing fame.
Once vibrant lives now lost to time,
echoes linger a ghostly rhyme.
A town that stood now left to mourn,
where shadows dance and dreams are torn.
Centralia breathes where nightmares unwind,
Silent Hill’s whispers from shadows aligned.
Centralia now waits in silence bound,
this ghost town wears its great sorrow proud.
Evelyn Lilith Green is a student of PennWest Global, working on their Bachelor's Degree to become a Librarian. They work at their hometown library in Evans City, Pennsylvania, as the Children's Coordinator and Clerk.
Aylah Hildebrand
Point Park University
Point Park University
Cotton Candy
The two of us are like two flavors of cotton candy.
I don’t think you see it like I do,
But just trust me when I say this to you.
I’d say you’re the pink one, and I’m blue.
You’re sweet, even if in denial of it.
You’re generic, but not in a bad way.
You’re the one everyone searches for,
Because of how well-known you are.
Everyone loves you,
But I’m not sure how I do.
Blue will always be the second option,
But how do I look to you?
Do I look like something bright and brittle?
Something that could dissolve, if given the chance.
Or do I look like someone you might truly give a chance to?
Even if it’s not in your hands.
Aylah Hildebrand is a freshman at Point Park University majoring in criminal justice. She has always depended on poetry and fiction writing as a coping mechanism when the stress of life or studying starts bothering her, and highly recommends the same thing to others.
Julia Imler
Point Park University
Point Park University
Exhibition of Rejects from the Clouds
Julia Imler writes: While "stanza" comes from the Italian word for "room," I have always enjoyed reading poems due to the discoveries their many rooms offer. When writing poems, I find myself sweeping up the fragments of my internal and external worlds to display in rooms I hope the reader will connect with.
Cloe Loosz
Point Park University
Point Park University
Perceptions of the woman in the coffee shop who fiddles with her teabag
She’s perched in the window seat,
watching a city pigeon
fiddle with a fry:
he’s an investment banker on break,
and she’s eyeing him across the room,
but only because he’s chewing
on his cigar.
Yesterday,
she spilled her herbal tea
into hungry sidewalk veins -
bubbling spit and cigarette butts,
cleansing, like an IV drip,
its trail stretched over brick walls
or the straps of her cherry stilettos.
Last week,
she met her father here.
Her eyes peeled back
his skin like weathered paint
while she squeezed her tea bag,
punctured by French-tip acrylics,
because he is the pigeon
with whiskey
in a silver flask,
peeking out
of his coat pocket
like a match.
watching a city pigeon
fiddle with a fry:
he’s an investment banker on break,
and she’s eyeing him across the room,
but only because he’s chewing
on his cigar.
Yesterday,
she spilled her herbal tea
into hungry sidewalk veins -
bubbling spit and cigarette butts,
cleansing, like an IV drip,
its trail stretched over brick walls
or the straps of her cherry stilettos.
Last week,
she met her father here.
Her eyes peeled back
his skin like weathered paint
while she squeezed her tea bag,
punctured by French-tip acrylics,
because he is the pigeon
with whiskey
in a silver flask,
peeking out
of his coat pocket
like a match.
Cloe Loosz is a creative writing major at Point Park University, with minors in public relations and gender studies. Her work has been published in Trill Magazine, the Mon Valley Independent, and the Illuminate Undergraduate Journal.
Darius Mack
PennWest University--Edinboro
PennWest University--Edinboro
The Bird that Quirks
A puffin named Penny was born with two siblings.
They rattled their bills in the nest while
She let out a shrill ‘Quirk!’
Her parents were alarmed,
Her siblings were confused,
But she was just Penny.
Her days were spent watching the waves while
Other puffins watched for prey and predators.
She could view the tides till world’s end
And sang loudly to the sea.
A song for the ocean,
And mindless noise to everyone else.
The siblings grew to be noble sea birds
With an eye for food and a voice for mating.
Their parents were proud.
Penny simply sang by the crag at sea
With an eye for storms and a voice for no one.
Her parents were disappointed.
Storm season came earlier than usual.
Thick winds thrashed the waves of the Atlantic.
Penny, amid the chaos, did as she always does:
She sang to the sea.
The nests heard her over the turbulent wind,
But ignored her all the same.
The darkened clouds arrived with cold torrents,
And savage sheets of water submerged the nests.
They attempted to escape:
Some were caught by the gusts,
Others never had a chance to fly.
Her days were spent watching over ruins as
Dead birds float along the ocean.
She could view the tides till world’s end,
Yet Penny refused to sing.
A song for the ocean,
Now reduced to silence.
Penny perched on the perilous rocks
Where her home once was.
Amongst the silence,
She could still hear the cries
Of agony from her fellow kin.
She could still hear her parents
Call out to her.
She could still hear the storm.
Darius Mack is a Philadelphia native, English major, and creative writer with too much free time.
Aodhán Ridenour
Slippery Rock University
Slippery Rock University
The Final Line
You are the true heir,
but I like to call you a little bastard,
the slippery somnambulistic snake,
so sweet in your reminiscence,
so sour in your persistence.
You are the whole enchilada,
the giblets and sauce
I’d so desperately
ration in the dystopia.
You are my denial of fame,
the warden leaning
against the gates of heaven.
Nobody else can find you.
You are evasive, tantalizing,
devious, vexing, bothersome,
and admittedly innocent.
I don’t know what I’d do
if I found you, maybe
stick you, pluck you,
blame you, burry you
or let you go.
You are the final line
to my last poem,
the first to come,
the only one
the world may never know.
but I like to call you a little bastard,
the slippery somnambulistic snake,
so sweet in your reminiscence,
so sour in your persistence.
You are the whole enchilada,
the giblets and sauce
I’d so desperately
ration in the dystopia.
You are my denial of fame,
the warden leaning
against the gates of heaven.
Nobody else can find you.
You are evasive, tantalizing,
devious, vexing, bothersome,
and admittedly innocent.
I don’t know what I’d do
if I found you, maybe
stick you, pluck you,
blame you, burry you
or let you go.
You are the final line
to my last poem,
the first to come,
the only one
the world may never know.
Born and raised in the riverlands of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Aodhán Ridenour studies English (creative writing), Spanish, and art at Slippery Rock University. His work has been published in KGB Lit Mag, Bewildering Stories, Green Blotter, Applause, and Rock Scissors Paper. He served as editor-in-chief of The Phoenix, and was an associate editor for SLAB.
Vincent Smykal
Point Park University
Designated Marksman
We’ll walk out the shower giggling,
padding puddles to the bedroom,
smelling of your shampoos and conditioner–
I never use conditioner–
and you’ll convince me this is better
than the milkshakes, pumpkin patches,
family dinners, drive-in theaters
and every other romantic thing
I mistakenly suggested.
When you call me to bed, I won’t
notice the pale triangle shaved above your (_____)
and it won’t remind me of the target
between each shoulder and the heart
they train SWAT snipers to fire at.
padding puddles to the bedroom,
smelling of your shampoos and conditioner–
I never use conditioner–
and you’ll convince me this is better
than the milkshakes, pumpkin patches,
family dinners, drive-in theaters
and every other romantic thing
I mistakenly suggested.
When you call me to bed, I won’t
notice the pale triangle shaved above your (_____)
and it won’t remind me of the target
between each shoulder and the heart
they train SWAT snipers to fire at.
Vincent Smykal is a creative writing student at Point Park University.
Mason Sorg
Point Park University
Point Park University
We Lie We Lie We Lie
We were horizontal. For so long, we were horizontal. Like a stack you and I.
In the grass, on the couch, on the floor, under the bed,
on the bed.
Then, with no little suffering, you said you wanted to stand up.
I knew this was coming. We couldn’t lie forever.
So we stand and I stiffen.
We become vertical lines and we promise to be parallel.
You expect everything to change. I expect nothing to change.
We say goodbye. You kiss me in the doorway. I watch until you’re gone, then I’m back on the floor.
In the grass, on the couch, on the floor, under the bed,
on the bed.
Then, with no little suffering, you said you wanted to stand up.
I knew this was coming. We couldn’t lie forever.
So we stand and I stiffen.
We become vertical lines and we promise to be parallel.
You expect everything to change. I expect nothing to change.
We say goodbye. You kiss me in the doorway. I watch until you’re gone, then I’m back on the floor.
Mason Hendrix Sorg is a sophomore creative writing major at Point Park University. He was born in Pittsburgh and raised in the small town of Greenville, Pennsylvania.
Madeline Thetard
Point Park University
Point Park University
I've always been bad with "How Are You"
The bullfrog declares evening with all its throaty thunder;
the backyard screams in cricket rapture.
Stars make rare appearances during city nights --
car owners, whom I hold in great disdain, have the luxury of driving to see them.
(I just stand up too fast and then boom!
A constellation of my very own.)
The fidget worries came back since the vines took over
and claimed the yard. It’s all very militant and abrupt.
Still, there finally blooms freshness amidst the piss and beer stench of
late college but I wonder whether I’m letting the frogs down?
Forgive me if it’s stupid, but the grass grows so long and the vines.
The entire ecosystem begs for a suicide hotline.
(While I ignore your inquiring texts, I can’t help but notice
how slow the world spins when I’m not looking down.)
The frat boys scream-sing Gwen Stefani down the street.
I hate them, but I’m also jealous, which is to say that I feel guilty all the time.
I think I’ll pull the vines tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll even wear gloves.
Punk Theory
After “Driving Theory” by Andrew Hemmert
Thrashing around on my bed like a star, I crank
my headphone volume to a nasty “all the way” --
I think this singer’s vocals sound like shit and if I smoked
cigs, I would offer a few to put the voice box out of its misery.
I still like the way they’re strumming floorboards and drumming
walls and cauterizing tablature while I shout myself raspy. Outside,
I look for the bricolage protest signs of youth stuck in institution.
Where’s the take-to-the-streets mantra they all warned me about?
I send my friend a new favorite song and she sends back a
thumbs down. I look up my name in the record store with no luck,
I paste myself onto zine pages in block printing hysteria,
but they tell me it’ll never circulate until I disrobe, disarm, or both.
It seems to me there are pigs snorting on every corner now, but
we just sit there and listen to them oink.
Thrashing around on my bed like a star, I crank
my headphone volume to a nasty “all the way” --
I think this singer’s vocals sound like shit and if I smoked
cigs, I would offer a few to put the voice box out of its misery.
I still like the way they’re strumming floorboards and drumming
walls and cauterizing tablature while I shout myself raspy. Outside,
I look for the bricolage protest signs of youth stuck in institution.
Where’s the take-to-the-streets mantra they all warned me about?
I send my friend a new favorite song and she sends back a
thumbs down. I look up my name in the record store with no luck,
I paste myself onto zine pages in block printing hysteria,
but they tell me it’ll never circulate until I disrobe, disarm, or both.
It seems to me there are pigs snorting on every corner now, but
we just sit there and listen to them oink.
Madeline Thetard is a poet, playwright, and theatre-creator currently studying at Point Park University in Pittsburgh, PA. Her work both onstage and on paper explores intergenerational family, girlhood, and the restlessness of young adulthood. Her work is published in The Midwest Quarterly and The Gulf Tower Forecasts Rain: Pittsburgh Poems.
Lillian Wiley
Slippery Rock University
Slippery Rock University
my favorite glass
holding onto you
is like gripping
a shattered glass
holding pieces together
splintering further
shredding my skin
shards in my mouth
blood on my
tongue
hands
heart.
is like gripping
a shattered glass
holding pieces together
splintering further
shredding my skin
shards in my mouth
blood on my
tongue
hands
heart.
patchwork
mismatched fabrics
maroon and mustard florals
old flush against new
clash and compliment
stretch my skin to compensate
for what yours could not accomplish
and yet, the gaps remain
despite my fraying threads
i must cling to each of you
refusing to give up
the wretchedness of our seams
i’ve exhausted myself
stretching, pulling, resewing, repeating
it’s to be expected –
one collaborative for a
greater purpose.
maroon and mustard florals
old flush against new
clash and compliment
stretch my skin to compensate
for what yours could not accomplish
and yet, the gaps remain
despite my fraying threads
i must cling to each of you
refusing to give up
the wretchedness of our seams
i’ve exhausted myself
stretching, pulling, resewing, repeating
it’s to be expected –
one collaborative for a
greater purpose.
Originally from Reading, PA, Lillian Wiley is a senior creative writing major at Slippery Rock University. Her poetry covers topics such as the complexity of relationship, the female body, monotony in daily life, and the expectations of a daughter. She is a member of the Air National Guard and an admirer of poetry. She loves travel good food, and most importantly her two cats.
