the bird on fire

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01010011 01101110 01100001 01101011 01100101, A Poem In Binary

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By Antonio Patencio

01010011 01101110 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01101111 01101000 00100000
01110011 01101110 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01101111 01101000 00100000
01101101 01100001 01110010 01110110 01100101 01101100 01101111 01110101 01110011 00100000
01110111 01101111 01101110 01100100 01110010 01101111 01110101 01110011 00100000
01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100 00100000
01110011 01101110 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000
01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000
01101101 01101001 01100011 01100101 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000
01110011 01110111 01100001 01101100 01101100 01101111 01110111 00100000
01110100 01101000 01100101 01101101 00100000
01110111 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100101 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000
01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000
01110010 01100001 01100010 01100010 01101001 01110100 01110011 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000
01110011 01110111 01100001 01101100 01101100 01101111 01110111 00100000
01110100 01101000 01100101 01101101 00100000
01110111 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100101 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000
01110011 01101100 01101001 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 00100000
01101001 01101110 00100000 01100111 01110010 01100001 01110011 01110011 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000
01110011 01101100 01101001 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 00100000
01101001 01101110 00100000 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100101 01110011 00100000
01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101100 01100101 01110100 00100000
01110101 01110011 00100000 01101000 01101111 01110000 01100101 00100000
01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000
01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01101001 01101110 00100000
01100001 01101110 00100000
01100101 01100001 01100111 01101100 01100101 00100111 01110011 00100000
01101000 01101111 01101100 01100100 00101110

*and its translation . . .

 

Snake oh

snake oh

marvelous

wondrous

beautiful

snake

you eat

the

mice

you

swallow

them

whole

you eat

the

rabbits

you

swallow

them

whole

you

slither

in grass

you

slither

in holes

but let

us hope

you are

not in

an

eagle’s

hold.

Editor: Shelby Armor

Sam Smith as “Raw Material”

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By Claire Jenkins

Poetic Form: Found Poetry

The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems. A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts.–Poets.org

The following poem is completely made up of lyrics from various Sam Smith songs creating a uniquely original “Claire” poem about love.

 

Don’t have direction, I’m just rolling down this road

Waiting for you to bring me in from out the cold

Cause I was built for you

Yes I was built to carry all your feelings

No need to step back

Don’t be scared, I got you, you know that

Now I’ve got you in my space

I won’t let go of you

Please don’t get me wrong

I wanna keep it moving

I know what that requires

I’m not foolish

We both have demons, that we can’t stand

I love your demons, like devils can

And deep down I know this never works

But you can lay with me so it doesn’t hurt

There’s a method to my madness

It’s clear that you don’t have a clue

And I hate to say I need you

I’m so reliant

I’m so dependent

I’m such a fool

I wish this would be over now

But I know that I still need you here

Don’t say it was the best thing for the both of us

When I’m the one playing the fool

I don’t think this will last

But you’re here in my arms

Told me not to cry when you were gone

But the feeling’s overwhelming, it’s much too strong

Cause I put everything out there and I got

Nothing at all

There’s nothing I can do

I’m helpless without you

Editor: Makena Behnke

Femina

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By Tahra Dactyl

 

Our value as women is disregarded,

compromised.

When we are anything other than the body

constructed for us,

we are outcast,

we are treated as an anomaly.

 

We are expected to wear makeup and

look pretty.

Our bodies are used to promote products,

treated as no more than an outlet for revenue.

But when we accept our bodies

(thus showing some skin),

we become shameful.

We lose our credibility.

We become

the dirt

that we walk on.

 

But we are so much more than that.

Editor: Claire Jenkins

The True Heroes

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By Charles Schnell

 

Charles received Honorable Mention for this poem submitted to the Youth Town Hall “Giving Back” Poetry Competition–a valley-wide competition held in honor of Caroline Kennedy, former ambassador to Japan and daughter of John F. Kennedy. Kennedy is a longtime advocate and editor of poetry. Her family is known for its dedication to service. The compilation of poems was a gift to Kennedy when she spoke at the Desert Town Hall Forum last month.

 

The celebrities,

The athletes,

The CEOs,

The lawyers.

These aren’t the

True heroes

(Especially the lawyers).

Rather,

Blessed be

The organ donors,

The charity givers,

The teachers,

The soldiers,

Those who give their time, money, and life

To giving back,

For they are

The true heroes.

Editor: Renée Vazquez

Stage Fright

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By Tahra Dactyl

Humans are incredible at acting,

except not on a conventional stage.

We act on a stage of discrimination:

sexism,

religious intolerance,

homomisia,

racism.

A stage of social constructs.

We have doomed ourselves to lives

of acting.

Pretending we’re someone we’re not.

Forced into personas by our fear of being left out,

our fear of being seen as

different.

We’re all good at acting,

because

of our stage fright.

 

Editor: Renée Vazquez

Ciana

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By  Renée

 

I looked at her

felt my heart fall to the floor

and begged the earth to

swallow me.

 

I fought with her.

 

She made me cry.

She wanted me to leave.

She said I wasn’t worthy for my dreams.

 

She cried too.

 

I could see right through her–

she was disintegrating–

and a pain in my chest burst through.

 

Then I splashed some water on my face

and walked away from the mirror.

Editor: Claire Jenkins

gurl power

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Poet Blogger Makena Behnke reminds us March is National Women’s History Month.

 

don’t tell me how to wear my hair

don’t tell me how much makeup to wear

don’t tell me you don’t like my style

and definitely don’t tell me to smile

maybe in your small dumb brain you think it’s flattering

but in our big broad minds it makes us want to scream

screaming, though, is no big fun

our voices hurt and then get numb

though they turn to deep, hoarse voices

maybe then you’ll think we should have some choices

–women’s day is everyday

 

Editor: Shelby Armor

a letter

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By Makena Behnke

 

i don’t miss you

i miss having someone like you, but i don’t miss you

i miss the shopping sprees and the fun times we rarely had

i don’t miss the judgment or the condescending attitude towards everything i like and do

i don’t miss you being overdramatic and making everything about you

i miss the eating out and trips to Costco for a berry ice cream sundae

i miss the “whatever you want”

i don’t miss the “that’s what you want?”

i miss the dogs

i miss the house

i miss the husband

i miss the having whatever you want whenever you want

but i certainly

do not

miss

you.

 

Editor: Renée Vazquez

An Open Letter to Parents

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By Claire Jenkins

 

An Open Letter to Parents,

     Your child is worth more than their GPA

     Your child is worth more than the colleges they get into

     Your child is worth more than the sports they play

 

     Your child is going to get hurt, but they will heal

     Your child is going to fall in love; it will be messy, but it will be beautiful

     Your child is going to make mistakes, but they will learn

 

     Your child is trying to figure themselves out, so be patient

     Your child is trying to make you proud, so don’t pressure them

     Your child is trying their best.

 

                                                 Sincerely,

                                                                A child

 

Editor: Shelby Armor

I’m Done

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By Guest Blogger-Poet Jackson Dean

I’m done;

Two weeks ago, 14 teens and 3 adults were killed at Stoneman Douglas High School by a young man with an AR-15.

I’m done;

Parents, husbands, and wives have to face the fact that the one they love most will never return to them.

I’m done;

Instead of honoring the victims and attempting to make much needed change, our President tweets about how it was the students’ fault for not saying something before the attack occurred.

I’m done;

Young survivors of the school shooting, who have become outright protestors of gun control, are demanding change and have received death threats.

I’m done;

Instead of reforming gun control, and preventing school shootings in the future, Congress members have only sent “thoughts and prayers.”

I’m done;

“Thoughts and prayers” have been sent to every recent school shooting. No action is taken. Things go silent; and then the next shooting occurs.

I’m done;

I’ve already written one poem about a shooting this year. It’s becoming more and more commonplace, and less riveting to write these poems.

 I’m done;

My subtleties and nuances that I once used to mask the message of these shootings have run dry.

I’m done;

I am sad, confused, and angry.

I’m done;

Moreover, I am scared. Scared for my life.

I’m done;

I am terrified that I will become a statistic, just like the 17 victims.

I’m done;

And you should be too.

Editor: Claire Jenkins