Faculty Selections

"Dogs"

I have a sneaking suspicion

That dogs are divine liaisons.

They see you cry

Or laugh

Or drink from the milk carton

And report back to God

About your character.

That’s probably why

They speak in languages

We don’t understand

And look at us so perplexingly.

---Christal Pearson, English

"The Walls Know"

Each wall a color not like the rest

Each Guise walks in distain

The walls speak of who is best

The people tend to refrain

Weeping walls whisper to confess

In the nightly romp the inhabitants contain

No mention of what lies below

In the cellar’s ridged hollow doors

No talk of the bodies of snow

That lines the crypt’s cake-like floors

And no speak of words to know

Of how the souls lost their psywar

Then as the walls call out in vain

The names hidden from the light

Ones held under hells detain

By the drudged souls of the night

Now are free to roam the terrain

Of life filled with no contrite.

---Jeff Clark, WBHS I.T. Specialist

"Ash and Soot"

A big, black, greasy stove

Lives deep within my soul

Burps fire and

Gas

Soot and

Ash

A spontaneous generation

-the size of a grain of life

Fell to my darkest pit

And it fed and grew

A voracious parasite

-living off thoughts and dreams

-chewing them up and burning them off

And the smoke filled the hole

Left by my dreams

And the black iron began to flow

In my veins

And my vision darkened

And my soul grew heavy

And I sank

Under the weight

Of ash and soot

---Dionne Nichols, English

“Nightfall”

Since it began that dreary day,

I’ve watched the sunset melt away,

Unto the dark, that time of fear,

Where footsteps sound, for they are here,

To greet us as we, shaking, pray.

For at this time the leaves to sway,

And Halloween’s no longer play.

I’m amplifying all I hear,

Since it began.

And so I question, should I stay?

Amongst my thoughts, my disarray?

Or should I flee from all that’s queer,

Unto high thoughts, imagined cheer?

But silence has struck heartbeat’s delay,

Since it began.

---Elizabeth Oliver, English

"Exquisite Torture"

Who would be willing to pay

top dollar and probably

parking and valet, too,

suffering through hoards

of stuffy people

muffled air

to see paintings

not displayed?

When is the marble

special enough for us

to stand in line pushing

shoving

tripping our way to

the front

only to be thrust

out of the way so

the next impetuous viewer

can be misplaced?

What becomes of the poem

the book

the essay, novella, story

when we don’t turn pages

musty and yellowed

dusty on the top shelves

too close to fluorescent lights

fading the print

yet too high to reach?

Why do we spend our time

watching dancers fly

legs spread

through the air

pirouetting on toes

worn and calloused?

Where does the sound go

if not through our senses

flowing down our spines

back up again

and out our mouths

arms raised against

the rising crescendo?

How is the artist to exist

if he doesn’t

brush his vision

mold his heart

pen his blood

dance his soul

flute his spirit

seduce?

---Dionne Nichols, English

"Third World"

The plight of a villager

Weaving strips of bamboo

Defiant of over-professionalized lassitude

Rinsing American politics

He sits

The centrality of eloquence

Burgeoning on widened identity

Happy to lose his head

In his heart, a skeptical calm

In his heart, the ardor of resistance

---Christal Pearson, English

“Sock Drawers”

Can you run away?

To some place foreign and fertile—

with possibilities to explore?

For you know the wind

is senile—

rocking forth the motion

of forgetfulness

and wonder.

Wonder how it will work out in the end?

With ladies dancing in tune

to wildflowers and daffodils—

to heavenly silence

that falls upon the ground

at groundbreaking speed

and deafens with its presence.

The absence of which is foreign to ears

accustomed to monotony—

the buzz of machinery—

the click of time passing

slowly, quickly—

effortlessly, I slip

you into my sleep—

see you passing before me

like old times—

finding you stuffed in couch cushions—

hidden behind treadmills—

folded in sock drawers.

---Elizabeth Oliver, English

"February 23^rd Dream"

Grandma pleaded to file my fingernails

They are a bit jagged

A bit rough around the edges

If you will

---Christal Pearson, English

“Wither”

Scattered sunsets—

Of the son,

The father rests his head.

Don’t turn and look—

Don’t’ be mistook—

Those children there have made their bed—

Stop it!

In eyes that glisten,

You listen to blinked hesitations

And manifestations of closeted concern.

You yearn.

You sink.

Drown.

Yet the frown enfolds the locks of hair—

Cascading mountains—

Falls that splash and sizzle from the weight—

The bait of shine and glitter—

The fate that’s doomed to wither.

---Elizabeth Oliver, English