The thought of valley is beautiful
flowers in the middle like the cream
in the middle of an oreo, the thought
of a valley, when you go sledding
down a slope on a cold fluffy winter
morning, while the valley’s being awakened,
a flying just a little when you
hit a slope and the valley yawns,
the thought of a valley could be
riding your bike down a deep
steep hill when the valley stretches,
the slowing down when the valley
goes to sleep, also the pain of going
back up the valley when it’s having
nightmares the thought of the valley is
I live in the lens
when you capture
a picture, I am
I am Irish dancing with
You tell me when
I am your camera
I leak memories
You gave to me
I am special
What do I do?
I help you
What do you do?
Where Fear Comes From
Fear comes from a
deep dark world where monstrous
things happen things that come
from the debts of the earth a
place which tears are drawn
hearts are broken and wills are
written. Fear tastes bitter
and poisonous every bite carries sorrow
and pain. Fear feels
bumpy and rough it feels like the
silver point of a needle sharp
and danger filled. Fear
sounds like laughter of an
evil queen and a joker which
are upon your playing cards
and cries from the ones killed
with the word fear. Fear
looks like a dark tunnel
leading to a dark enchanted
forest full of ghouls and
ghosts and creatures you
have never heard of. And
that’s where fear comes
The Mysterious Human Heart
The mysterious human heart, rolling down the
jagged, unforgiving cliff.
It was replaced with a synthetic heart because
they thought it had failed.
He was just taking a nap from pumping blood
for fifty-seven years.
The doctors threw a fit when it started moving
there in the metal pan.
That metal pan was cold and Steve was
Now, tumbling like a piece of in an avalanche,
he turned and looked.
A pelican flapping its wings, falling down
Oh heart if only you could save yourself
from the drop like the pelican.
He landed, still pumping, grassy, sticky,
He heard the birds wailing, and he
saw the wave
Show Me To The Old Home
Dusty, old, dull.
This is where I used to lay.
Big, gray, broken apart
I see it right in front of me.
With every step I take
Creaks fill the air
Nothing has been washed for ages
I don’t know this place anymore.
Show me to the old home.
On top of the browned hill
Memories fill my brain as I wonder
What all went wrong here
Happy, joyful, lively
Where did that all go?
Bland, dirty, cringe-worthy
What happened to my old home?
My heart stopped momentarily
Show me to the old home
Where life used to be happy
The Secret Nightstand
A nightstand smells like
In the night it comes
off the table and walks
away for good.
A nightstand tastes like
a pot boiling on a stove.
I have not seen my
nightstand in years.
a dog who finally
found out that it can bark.
a smiley face. Happiness
is a big hug. Happiness
is a seagull that
just caught a big fish.
Running in a Forest in Greenbrier, Arkansas
I run as I dodge trees left and right
with the occasional shrub I bound through the
forest. To my right I see a pitch black
dead world and to my left I see the
golden light of the sun leaving its last
few rays before the dark world will take over.
As I run the thick aroma of autumn pine
fills my nose. I look back ahead of me only
to feel a spiky, thorny pine cone embed itself
in my soft, fleshy face. I keep running and I
can taste the blood in my mouth. I see the
end of the forest, I dart out and sprint to
the sunset. It was too late and as I turned back
I saw the beautiful, lively, and sunny, world dissipate
the Big White house
So much depends
your big white
Drenched in huge
By your crazy
A demonic weight that shall always
keep the space between the dullness of
education, and the spiritualness of days
offered by gaps in learning stability.
A screaming horde, charging
a little taste of fresh meat, in this case
the abstractness of fun.
The dull end of a knife,
growling digging away to the thought of freedom.
The unforetold expiration on a
reality slowly rattling away, and without the
thought of past prime.
The after taste of sweet
cake, always tormenting you because of its
absence of it on a platter, or the
misfortune of it touching your hungry lips.
All of these explain the
insecurity of living past Sunday,
into the bleak, lifeless, standards
brought by the dullness of
Ode to Springtime
Spring tastes like the juiciest
tomato in the garden Spring smells
like smog and beautiful flowers
Spring feels like the softest
bunny in the forest Spring sounds
like raindrops on the house roof.
Greenbrier Public Schools
Date of Visit: November 18 – 19, 2014
Faculty Sponsor: Robin Clark
Grade Levels: 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Appx. Number Students Served: 120
Visiting Writers: Megan Blankenship, Larissa Sprecher, Chris Tamigi, and Max Thompson