May Poetry Compilation
The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke readers and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea and dive into the intricate words of our community.
By Elida Silvey
No. 8 by Elida Silvey
I managed to run up the steps to the top deck
bus already moving with its jolting start
like the hooves of a horse, bolted
after leather-slap
indicating go connected to backside. I scoured the surface trying to find
in the morose code map
of empty bus-seats
a long drawn out line peace provided by a couple of headless
humps
and a fog-less window painting
the passing by. I could let my mind run wild, pinging off
polycarbonate windows my very own bouncy ball
boinging off the dusty corners of the stairwell
as I helplessly attempt to collect
every single mental metal jack off the floors leftovers piercing the aisle with their translucent pointed tips let out a long
vaporous sigh.I try to remind myself that the start of
something
transitions in sunsets small scapes that take
their languid time
stretch out and bat their gooey eyelids nothing here is rapid. We stop at intersection, red light beaming
with boisterous presence towering over six roads converting
into oneacross the window, through glistening frame condensation draws
a ring around another woman
a stranger sat on double-decker, staring right back at me.
Meritorious by Justice Petersen
Shut the window
No more pins
It keeps on coming
Creeps like the sun
Forget the ones who tore me down
Take away my twisted frown
Heavy is the head who was given a crown
I didn’t ask I didn’t say
The title is mine
In this lifetime
Who’s to say that I deserve
All this good
Too good to be true
Will it leave me too soo
Father says the gods are on my side
Mother says I’m famous doing just fine
Who’s to say I deserve all this good
Shut the window
Stuck with this
Guilt I keep it trapped within
That’s what I call my heavy crown
Survivors guilt
And empathy for you
The Corridor to June by Grace Nielson
I wanted to embalm the memory of
bursting cherries puckering out from
over me in twiggy caves full
with the rusted moth light of deep eve:
the yellowed red against the green against the blue
I stood crane necked avoiding eye contact,
silently entering the conversation of
a dozen fire-necked sparrows peeving about
the dead branches two stories above:
waltzing and marching their wings
violently against the stale desert air
As I watched the creek from the bridge
I imagined an alternate experience dipped
into the rippling tides as they scatter the
image of our lives refracted and cracked
by the electric ebbing of mountain slush
blanketed over a mud-stained gash eaten out
by mother time, her tongue slipped over each
rivet- hallowing, blowing, sucking,
a curtain drawn over the spring
This birthplace of suckled ducklings weening
into their mother is also an execution,
the envious snap their lolita necks,
the mourning engulf with charming beaks,
the metal throat of the underground waterway swallows
the soup of nectar, pollen, fleshy roadkill, worn trunk, human waste
June abducted naivety, spat her swelling body
on the concrete with carved-out bones and a sharp
twisted mind of melancholy,
nostalgia shifts like fingers dancing,
a subdued dream lost in translation between
two ends of one melody
We found connection, its affection of living
things rubbing up against us, making promises,
keeping promises, tempting us, trellis of broken limbs
trailing the weeds to the observation deck, tapestry
of a backyard sunset, only to her do I forfeit, I relish
in trying again and I’m taught to keep the peace, and
with the loss of light in the east it gets quiet.
Ode to Spring by Audrey Jiggetts
This is a love letter to spring.
This is a love letter to overarching warmth,
shedding of sweaters and crochet clutches stashed in the sand. The sun is overhead and boiling and you are there (I think) cheeks warm and mouth parched.
This is a love letter to gazes.
This is how I love the stars, flickering behind and on top and oh so bright. The moon is quiet and careful, it has things you cannot comprehend and ones I don't wish to. (we are so different and yet not really at all, which I think scares us both.)
Something is beautiful about destruction of self (slowly, in a way that is not concerning except for those who know where to peer.)
Even if you cannot understand, I promise I do,
(do you care if I’m well?)
Somewhere amidst the curve of waves and overly colorful flowers is my
adoration
for you
which doubles as an eager invitation to my own demise, whether I'd like to admit it or not.
i do love you, though. I promise.
This poem is to falling apart, crumbling sadness. There is an undying comfort in breeze that ruffles my skirt and chills the backs of my knees, and watching trees that are half dead spring back to life.
The buds are coming. She is so sad.
Kneel before me, tell me I love you. (the observation, not the statement from self.)
Tell me I'm sick.
Tug me close, in the crook of your arm and below the
crown of your skull,
where U cannot paper-cut myself and stab you even deeper. In April curved branches droop with the weight of rotting cherry blossoms and remembered mouths.
This is an xoxo to bad things that feel better.
Time’s Tiny Hands by Brigita Przybylski
Time tries to rearrange her tiny hands
Poking my back from behind
Making fun of the love that I’ve never had
“Not yet,” she says
“Not yet,” she says
“Not yet. Not yet. Not yet,” she says
As if I am a little kid on a road trip
When I wonder when
But how do I know she is even answering my question
Or telling the truth
When I can’t see her face
And the sun shining through the windshield is blinding me
And the road stretches on as far as I can see
Into the horizon
I don’t even like to drive
And I realize that I never changed the car’s clock after daylight savings
And why is it called that
As if time is some savior
When all it feels like is a ticking bomb
That rests in time’s tiny hands