Little Her

She's not sure why 

it is the way that it is.

What does comfortable 

mean? Swans rest in 

lakes with only ones that

look like them. 

No one can be different.

You must be the same as

the one next to you.

Her comfortable is one 

unlike another's. She likes 

when there's puzzle pieces 

missing from the box. That's 

the way that it should be. Like

Christmas lights with one dead

bulb. She's like those string 

of lights—

so beautiful. 

Acrobat

Such innocence

Such hell

Red to black

Gray to white

Heavy doors

Tiny trees

Claustrophobic

Spaces 

Make him say

I do

One Street too Soon

There comes a point you get

to caught up to notice. Forgetting

what used to be—what used to 

be spectacular. I don't want to

forget, but I do. The fact that I 

do makes my skin melt into

a swamp and I glide along the

curb block after block. I'm not 

always alone; you're there too 

sometimes. Yet, even when you're

there you are also a mushy swamp.

When will I become a solid again?

When will we become solid 

again? 

Growing Seed

deep waters

heavy black clutch

slipping sanity

swim with me

will you?

into this dark

abis of chronological

order

I'll go missing for 

missing that moment

seize the day they say

don't loose what you

don't already have

you'll know why when

your light goes out 

"Okay"

I've been left with

a handkerchief that 

has turned a mustardy 

yellow. It's aged as we

have. It's often left in

the garage next to 

tools for things I'm not

sure of. It has come into

many uses in it's time;

it shows up to clean 

up—other times it

disappears 

Classification

Little Lucy lost

peculiar puzzle pieces

simple, smooth, small

it is indecisive 

black, but bleak

twisted talk time

drowning doom—disengage 

Ex-Mail

She holds herself up 

with one finger expecting

you to hold the rest

of the nine. That's not a 

plan, it's a dream—it's 

the hope of demands. 

Watch your back, take 

a quick breath and stop.

By stop I mean, grow up. 

Swing of Melodies

It's easy to forget

why we are here

I'm not sure why

and somehow I'm 

just a spec in your 

eye—but none

of that matters because 

I'm here. I'm right 

here 

Indoor Balance

Changing seasons with reformed

faces by the workmanship of the

sun’s beating tempo. Environmental

flaws stir up turbidity in our sky, a sky

we do not worship as a god. We

model and mold the winding cranial

cords of our mind to never be

rendered hopeless. The world

stands corrected by linear lines

looped through the eyes of needles—

the same needles we once tried to

put a camel through. Yet, we keep

ourselves busy by the rushing waters

of infinite workflow that will soon

glaze our telescopic views. Please view

our newly designed home page that

has been heavily edited to now be

easily navigated for women over 45.

No veil is considered to be “dirty,” but

raw beauty that signifies innocence.

Enhancements are discouraged here in

the dunes. The trick is to make your

thoughts cloudy not your urine. If

you experience these symptoms please

visit our newly designed home page.

Mudslide

somewhere over

the hills

lies something

that is not

physical

it's beautiful

simple and 

honest

there is purple

and pink

and dark

shadows

you don't have 

to wear a 

seatbelt

and there 

is no track

of time

I chose to

be 

lost 

out here

somewhere

Terrific Influence

I'm stuck in the middle of
a rainstorm somewhere out
here. I'm actually stuck.

These clouds came and poured
concrete around my off-white,
boney ankles. I'll ride down

these open roads someday
soon. I'll become the new
American billionaire. My

new acquaintances will reach
their financial ruins in the month
of November. That's the "truest

truth" I've ever heard. It's also
true that one day I'll live in a
hospital ward with the softest grass.

They will play 90's hip-hop and
ask me questions about my health.
Every room will be an empty

tomb for all the men who are
homesick. The wind will sweep
in a melody too poignant for those

bailing on life itself. This has to do
with how the river flows and the "about
us" section on business's websites.

Off-White

He kills the

alphabet 

The deep

appearance of

black ribs 

on a 

karaoke deck

This is an

economic

green alert

The likelihood

of being 

tortured 

seizes to

shake those

who are 

dyslectic 

The alphabet 

song

resonates 

in my

throat

New Morning Fight

I'm having my very own

yard sale and this is going

to be the biggest yet.

I started this yard sale

extravaganza and I will

be crowned queen again

this year. Negotiation is

only allowed on the third

sale day. This is no "sidewalk"

sale. I'm slightly intoxicated,

but I start drama with 

purpose. This community

of mine is an oilfield in

Hawaii. I can tolerate

a little gender-bending

activity once in a while.

Carol's cat just puked 

on the Christmas tree

marked at fifteen dollars.

Now it's trash and I loathe

the holidays more than ever.

Hours of War

You walk through me

to remind me you’re there

I pour cheerios in my

bowl and drop two on the floor

You’re back and I’m wiping

your spit off my face

I open the fridge and

there’s no milk

You mock me in my ear

and jab my side with your nails

I eat the cereal dry with my fingers

in my over-sized work clothes

You kick my shins and push

your thumbs under my eyes

I glare at the TV hating you

and loving you somehow

You know I am lost and

I’ve accepted that now

Secret Story: Great Mistaken Society

The sign says “Sale”—I just have

to stop. The mom is wearing

white shorts and an old baseball

cap. The little girl in pink crocs is

selling dozens of sugar cookies.

I half-smile choking on a “Good

Morning.” I have a fetish with

pretty feet and shotguns. Sadly,

this sale has neither of those. I’m

shocked, I guess, to find a fire bird

stuffed animal in the 25 cent box.

Around the next table is a halter top

with a sticky note on top. The note

says, “Hand crocheted by my late

grandmother.”

That comment is too far. Boys like

average, skimpy girls who wear old

dirty pearls. I bet that grandmother

was blind which makes this sale

kind of blue and haunting. 

Presidential Sheep

I detest you more than—more

than the number six hates seven.

I have become a gawky doll

sitting in a dusty collection.

I’ve covered you from the

world, but the snakes of this

town have search you out.

I stand with one leg on the

northern hemisphere and the

other on the southern. The equator

separates us at the mouth. You

had icy white wings while I

stood under an apple tree in

4 inch rain showers. Beloved, I

once called you, but that is all

nonsense now. I am still that

doll in that collection that has

lost all sympathy for the wicked.

I’m an animated crane machine

exhausted by your crushing legs. 

Brighter Conspiracy

We live in the old country with
the old men and sticky floors.

There are white aprons getting
our refills on coffee and we

thank them not looking in
their eyes. This isn't the Ukraine

this is the flat country. Women
stand on intersection sidewalks

with signs that say words
like help, food, or single.

This isn't Chicago—we are
incompatible states pressed

together in a large foil can.
We are proud of black leather

jackets and sneakers with lyrics
on the soles. We agree to disagree

on sanitary public restrooms. Honestly,
we all want a gracious waitress, but

we aren't always that lucky. I
mean to say we aren't all that special.

"October 29, 1996" Joe Wenderoth

Sometimes there's no coffee in the coffee. I plow through

it and it is definitely a coffee area, but there's no coffee in it.

I always think they'll be a little at the bottom of the cup,

but there never is. If it's missing at all, it's all missing. The

fact is, coffee isn't just a substance--it's an event, and its 

manifestation depends on countless subtle conditions, most

of which are not speakable.

First Submission...

I just submitted three poems to the Baltimore Review...

"Individual Maze"
"Deep Sea Speed"
"Popular Tricks"

"Memory Lane" (Alexis Youngs)

The world turned to ash as she walked
Down the halls where the faceless people lived.

They watched her with dark sockets
Screaming mouths
Filled with bees

As she borrowed their wings
And flew
Upside down across the sky

Her desk grew arms
Glued nailed

The record is on repeat

She hears the gentle buzzing

And puts the world in a zip-lock bag
And they eat her wings

I love the surreal in this poem and the theme of the wings. The wings signify striving for change and that's something I greatly admire about this poem. 

"Salad Bar Misinformation" (Courtney Sniadecki)

“I think, maybe, we should try seeing other people,”
he says to me, as I stand in line at the cafeteria, waiting for

the lady in front of me to stop hogging all the ranch so
that I can have my turn with the white plastic bottle

I ask him to repeat himself because I don’t
believe that he’d do something like dump me in

a place as public as this, where the guy behind us is
so close that I can smell his garlicky breath and

when just a few moments ago, we were talking in his car
about work, about how his manager is incompetent at

hiring people for the holiday season, and
about how the lights are starting to go out in

their break room, and that he
didn’t know that fluorescents ever died

the only thing that’s changed between then and
now is the fact that I am carrying a salad that

at some point has stopped looking like a salad,
with the ranch dripping onto the mounds of bacon

could that be why he wants to leave? because my salad
looks so alien to him that I, myself, must not be normal

maybe if I add some chicken, I can tell him that
I’m trying to recreate the new salad that they have at mcdonalds

“I said… I think, maybe, we should try getting

away from these people,” he clarifies

I love this poem. The whole idea of this scenario is believable and extremely comical. This poem reflects relationships and essentially society.

Chapbook...(so far)

One Small Kingdom includes a collection of poems with a strong voice. The poems are created with purpose and potential lessons. The chapbook raises ideas of how to essentially keep your head above water. The poems contrast with reality and surreal scenery creating its own world. The voice is consistent throughout by mixing the collection of poems by creating a theme. This theme is striving for change and advice while beating the odds of uncertainty. Many characters emerge representing people or unconscious thoughts in one’s life. Metaphors create mental images to understand the physical and emotional world that we live in. The author purposefully entwines her work for a sole purpose of proposing something different for everyone. The chapbook promotes the fight and change in trials in life that come. 

Commission

I wish you would make that face.

That face that looks like a pineapple

so sensitively striking.

You’re right in the middle of coconut

milk and vinegar.

It was September 2^nd and all the peanut

shells were scattered in the sanctuary.

We ate a lot of peanuts that day. I had

been slow to anger.

Right now you’re a stale bagel and

I’m the fresh cream cheese. I can’t be

spread

anymore. I’m sorry for forgetting

the ingredient shipment. I promise to

forever be your servant.

Mary Ann Samyn

My Life in Heaven

“Shark Shark Shark, or Whatever It Is That You Want Next”

Chipping Decay

Fay spent her life

hooked unable to

see, speak, breathe

Grow up

The brain, spinal cord

marked broken bones—

skull fracture

Women’s prison

Battered brain and little

body. Consistent guilt

abuse, lost over the years

placement eligible

“living hell”

South Bend Tribune

Erasure of:

“Early Release Despite Child’s Death?”

One Small Kingdom

Dark Blue Pavement

Popular Tricks

Stranded Telephone Wires

Deep Sea Speed

Sandy Ice Cream

Intentions Under Constructions

Cop and Sweater

Individual Maze

Soft Streaks

Yellow Trees

Deep Sea Speed

It’s when you’re going

20 mph and shift to the

right to show the guy

riding your tail what you’re

working with

I’m not much of a potty mouth

more like the drain of a cleaned

hotel room

But driving slow…

Driving slow is your favorite

slice of cheese falling on a

blue, wool sweater

Going 75 alone with your

left hand at noon and a

cheeseburger in your

right

Soft Streaks

Christen got pink and whined, jumping

small leaps like a frog with a limp muscle.

People stared with dilated eyes−her father

blushing and hushing the child. The clerk

repeats, “will that be all sir?” All he can

do is stammer out chewed-up phrases.

She is unaware of values and figures.

To her it’s only paper. Christen was once

caught coloring green Jackson’s with

pink crayon. She knew life was easy, but

that man there−

stands on the road with a sign she cannot read.

Christen becomes calm, like an empty beer bottle

tossing back and forth in murky lake waves.

The clock ticked away as if it was a face, and the

minute hands were a twisting mustache to

show his fury. Her father could see her Jesus-like

compassion behind his green reading glasses—she pointed

to the corner of the street. She walked through

lifeless grass with traffic being the only sound when she

gave her candy bar to the man with the sign.

I wrote this poem a while ago, and tried to change some of the words and layout recently. However, I still feel like I could change some words or lines for it to be more effective. I don't feel that the poem should be tossed just changed in order to get the meaning across maybe a little better. 

Individual Maze

When I die throw the rest of my

tea in my flower garden, but buy me more

every month.

Eat a tuna sandwich for me.

Visit Goodwill on their half-off day and find

me a turtle neck to put in my drawer.

Tell me some bad jokes they are my

favorite.

Don’t sleep on my pillow I didn’t get to

wash it. Go to the beach with me and

bring someone new.

Please just try the tuna…

Don’t worry I just changed my oil.

I feel complete about this poem because it does exactly what I wanted it to accomplish. I wanted it to be honest and simplistic in its form to someone I wouldn't want to leave behind. After working with the breaks I finally came to these line breaks and as I said before, I feel completed about it. 

Popular Tricks

The aisles are filled with seasonal,
sparkling holiday knacks. She gawks
at the pink and red heart shaped
options. The gray lump of a lady next to her
mumbles, “my teeth, my teeth.”
She picks up the lady’s
chompers,
wipes them on her shirt, and places
them in her own mouth. She looks
at the rice thinking of her mailman Bill
and how single he really is.
The lady slowly follows her
yelping down the aisles.
She rubs both of her gums like they
are fresh and sore—like a baby
teething and wishing
for world peace. Who would really
be against world peace?
The lady yells like her mouth is
a blender filled with bananas, peanut
butter, and honey, “my teeth, my teeth,
you wicked Jezebel.”

"Are We Alone? Is it Safe to Speak?" Mary Ruefle

Dear Unknown Friend,
I know I am real to you,
and though you aren't that real to me
without you I would not exist.
Certainly I would never have stepped
into this nutmeg grater
and become a pile of fine woodsy particles.
It occurs to me we are walking
piles of dust, you and I,
and still it smells as sweet
as summer winds off the coast of Zanziba
and the sails are up and off we dash
into the brine of our contentment.
I'm glad you know me well.
When I fall asleep, curling up
in a little ball, will you take me home
and hold me in the palm of your hand,
posthumously, anonymously,
and when the time is right
blow me away?

"Are We Alone? Is it Safe to Speak?"
Mary Ruefle
Trances of the Blast
Published by Wave Books

I really love this poem. It is very interesting in creating this "thing" or person and how it is affecting the voice of the poem. It gives so much intriguing detail that colors the poems content explicitly.

"Daniel" Noelle Kocot

He loved the way her hair
Curled in the rain. He
Loved her attachment to
Syzygies. He loved the way
It was always a fat man
Who had keys jangling around
His waist. He loved the sun,
The way a cat loves the sun.
He loved the ruins of old
People ambling down the street.
He loved. And lost. And
Loved again. Numb from
The waist down, there was
Nothing that he didn't love,
Practically speaking. He
Found the sex instinct was
For art and art alone. And
So he made art, and in his
Spare time, he wept. He
Kept away from edges,
Soothed himself to sleep.
He loved the fall, loved to
Rake leaves in the fall.

"Daniel"
Noelle Kocot
The Bigger World
Published by Wave Books

This poem contains a strong sense of voice. The way it describes a person for tells a lot about the person much more than they are saying. I find the poem very intriguing by its humor, word choice, and arrangement.