Our bravest contributors have shared with us some of their more earnest efforts from the misty past. Scary Bush should not be reviewed while in the process of drinking liquids, and the reader assumes all risk.
Poems That Don't Rhyme
Maggie Blake Bailey
Bathroom Series #1: Detroit Metro Airport
2011 – I am a senior in high school and decide I will write a poem inspired by every bathroom I enter during my class’s two week long art history trip to Italy.
This is the first of forty.
Brown tile divider makes me ask, “which way?”
but both sides lead to the same place, where
white floor in checkered squares
was washed once, but not today, perhaps
someone will look up,
call the number printed on the wall
to voice dissatisfaction over brown on the white
and the niggling smell of lake water.
When toilets flush
they echo off stainless steel, burnished until
it doesn’t shine,
doesn’t glare to confuse
the eyes of the appliances
watching you move so they know when to flush
not flush, wash away soap suds
from hands that never touched a switch,
for they are shy here,
prefer to watch and react than be touched
and I can respect that but
sometimes need to wave twice to catch
they forget to watch, lulled to sleep
by too strong perfume
and travelers’ yawns
that even water splashed in the face
Life is a mystery
Even to people like Madame Cure
What is Life?
Is it something you can stab with a knife?
Is it something you can take away from it, its breath?
On the other hand, what is death?
Is there really such a thing?
If there is, what does it bring?
What if, when we die, we go to another place?
Like somewhere out in space
In another word
Into an infant that’s been curled
Against its mother’s breast.
Life is a test
At which each human must do its best
And get ready for the final rest.
Why is death such a scary thing?
Is it an ancient curse done against an ancient people when they were killing?
If this is true, is this cowardness an instinct?
If not, then why is this universe jinxed?
What is religion?
Is it something to scare people with when they sin?
Why does it exist?
Is it to use people’s minds when they don’t get kissed?
What is a king?
In other words, what is everything?
Eileen types rapidly,
She chain-smokes death.
Eileen has nice legs,
and a pock-marked face.
She wonders where I am tonight.
Here I am, Eileen.
Here I am on the seaside,
into the stars.