2008 Woodie Awards
Poetry Corner
Issue date: 10/12/06 Section: Portfolio
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as birds sip between
by Kyle Vealey '09
Two sharpened flowers, nineteen small smiles fixed
by three-looped jerked as roses squeeze seven white
while be
low
"Hands-on attraction show, 7 pounds for two rounds"
outgrowing faint twists along a brim v
ertebrae, hand-on hips peering out from Charity,
limptired as worn
peer of cigarette motion, slow puff other hand
batofeyes mouthed motion 'babywa-cough
-ant som'
lick
there are bottled mornings in her bicep s
and shining pale and smooth, dry along a
stained multitude of flowers.
eight fingers are struggle's hold
opening entirely opaque.
For
doubt of pureness seems doubt of love
as birds sip between the breasts of absurd.
Jazz . . . to be continued
by Dan Meehan '07
I get to shivering in a cold bath by the time
Sunday evening rolls around,
hustling thread through hallways
floating on the sound of jazz trumpet,
up from the stereo in the living room,
ghosts whistling at my young white body,
I can't take the garbage out this evening,
not without the jazz group,
they been scaring me and
protecting me.
Sexed up layered assaults of sound waves
crashing and burning up firestorms in the
black night, flashes of brass, dresses
run up the knees, cigarettes and grit
and grease and ruining rhyme.
A cat
in the corner can't stand
the hypnosis of marijuana any longer
than the horn can scream
get to the streets boy,
finish that wine!
Dine on tribal salute and ageless fruit,
with that holy hymnal hovering
over every pot and pan that
bangs in the tar.
Sanctuary, fields of abstract art and
spaces between the squares,
Walt Disney wallpaper flushed
with seventy five different pictures of the same Marilyn Monroe face,
come back around and pick me up
and knock me down back out into
the home crowd so my clothes are dispersed
by Kyle Vealey '09
Two sharpened flowers, nineteen small smiles fixed
by three-looped jerked as roses squeeze seven white
while be
low
"Hands-on attraction show, 7 pounds for two rounds"
outgrowing faint twists along a brim v
ertebrae, hand-on hips peering out from Charity,
limptired as worn
peer of cigarette motion, slow puff other hand
batofeyes mouthed motion 'babywa-cough
-ant som'
lick
there are bottled mornings in her bicep s
and shining pale and smooth, dry along a
stained multitude of flowers.
eight fingers are struggle's hold
opening entirely opaque.
For
doubt of pureness seems doubt of love
as birds sip between the breasts of absurd.
Jazz . . . to be continued
by Dan Meehan '07
I get to shivering in a cold bath by the time
Sunday evening rolls around,
hustling thread through hallways
floating on the sound of jazz trumpet,
up from the stereo in the living room,
ghosts whistling at my young white body,
I can't take the garbage out this evening,
not without the jazz group,
they been scaring me and
protecting me.
Sexed up layered assaults of sound waves
crashing and burning up firestorms in the
black night, flashes of brass, dresses
run up the knees, cigarettes and grit
and grease and ruining rhyme.
A cat
in the corner can't stand
the hypnosis of marijuana any longer
than the horn can scream
get to the streets boy,
finish that wine!
Dine on tribal salute and ageless fruit,
with that holy hymnal hovering
over every pot and pan that
bangs in the tar.
Sanctuary, fields of abstract art and
spaces between the squares,
Walt Disney wallpaper flushed
with seventy five different pictures of the same Marilyn Monroe face,
come back around and pick me up
and knock me down back out into
the home crowd so my clothes are dispersed