Tag: Sam Ward ’21
The Dead Bird Still Sings
by The Cowl Editor on October 25, 2018
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
It’s okay. You can look away.
Still fixated at the heap of feathers and blood at our feet:
I’ve seen dozens of dead birds and have had perfectly splendid days.
Perfectly. Splendid.
Perhaps if I knew our correspondence would be,
Stockholm / Lima,
I would have chosen my words more carefully,
Or I would have trusted the omen.
Picking apart the dwindling hours we had left,
Plausible pleasure from a desire for purpose.
I wish I could run it back and leave.
Really, I just wish I would have left the corpse alone.
Because I lost my autonomy,
Following morbid thoughts,
Reaping what I sowed,
Aviary horrors only curses could produce.
Stepping into the antiquated nest,
Searching for adventure, settling for misery.
Shield me from the onset,
Clipped wings are anything but correct.
Me, like a lemming leaping to my death,
My fate leading me astray, naïve.
The wind would reject my wings.
Oh how, the dead bird still sings.
One of These Days
by Andrea Traietti on October 18, 2018
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
One of these days
I’ll challenge myself and put together the words that spell out b-e-a-u-t-y
I’ll pen the pursuit and capture the prize
I’ll thank my girl for kissing my scars
I’ll have no need for desire
One of these days
I won’t romanticize the end of times being the best of times
I won’t pretend it’s all gloom and no glory
I won’t sleep through class and I will start reading, maybe writing, maybe exercising
I won’t let my ego idolize a case
of spiritual malnutrition
clara clara clara clara clara clara of material fixation
One of these days
I am going to write inspired works and perhaps,
perhaps burn the fire that combusts inside of me
I am going to love to be loved and bring dream to conception
I am going to rework the very design of the process
I am going to wear my smile and mean it
One of these days,
clara clara clara clara clara clara I am going to say something and actually believe it.
these words will not write themselves
by Andrea Traietti on September 27, 2018
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
each sentiment rises and falls as if the moon inspires
but these are brain waves
living, breathing, decaying
eternal in space, ethereal in time
a reprieve from continuity
complacent thoughts comatose
it’s perfection or insanity
and these thoughts will drive you mad
so spill black and blue blood spelling out spirit
spell with each the hand that guides
with each the symbols that hide
with each a desire that burns where your cognition resides
You are not without weakness
these whirling wrinkles whistle by your ears
but you won’t be here unless you look in the mirror ’cause
you are not without weakness
these words will not write themselves
the ghost writer who keeps you up at night
will not revel in the respite but rather
atone the anxiety and administer the anguish
find your peace between the margins
your mind will condone the grip you have on the bic pen
the ink bleeds to your wits’ ends.