Little Poet little poet little poet this is me me who loves when sashays of fire brush against a silver sky and gentle lights enkindle the starry abyss above and how everything is a relic in my enthralled eyes because I am aesthete to great amounts. little poet little poet amateurish antics lingers in my bones and desires course through my veins. I have mother nature living in my soul and I cherish her immensely alongside the analogies and metaphors that creative minds have graced us with. I crave to paint the lush greenery and melt under the sun before I sink into her soil wearing a crown of virtue and floral grace and elegance. I want to kiss art. a plethora of thousands of kisses in its honor little poet little poet you recognize the beauty in everything, don't you? -Obsessed Artist Untitled by Tansen Patel-Bose Quick the purple dusk from heaven swirls While sweet stupidity falls on all the world. At one lone window the incense burns And sable clouds on whisks of wind are churned. Lost in a mantle of smoky wreaths The moon above and the maiden beneath Flash their pearly smiles unbeknownst. She bends in that muted light to voice a grateful prayer; Her happy murmurs blossom silver in the chilly air. And when with undone hair she joins the rest to sleep Her dreams are bright with golden joys that she has yet to reap. Long Dreams by Anonymous Long dreams; driving north only every once in a while i close my eyes, unmake myself then wake up in the driver's seat of my sedan exactly where i was last time, of course driving north. Somewhere around new york the backroads ended highways coalesced, led me upward and i know im heading somewhere. some great and terrible ultimatum towering peak where the north runs out, gives way to ...something. On the side of the road mountains grow, and they were little germs of things once mountains, now Spires. I cannot see the peaks but they watch me. angry eyed. Now I wake up to splotches Of late-stage sunrise: a world that isn’t quite ready So I soak up the human again, get {clothes} dressed. Eat {cereal} food. But sometimes I carve out a quiet little moment And in stillness I feel it: the gentle swaying, The quiet hum of well made machinery Carrying me, asleep in the back seat north All The Books I've Ever Loved by Ella Partanna To all the books I’ve ever loved You are a part of me You let me journey through your worlds Past my reality You’ve helped me get that special joy That I feel when I read And through the words I’ve read and more You leave a little seed With literature my seed will grow Into a mighty tree The tree holds all the books I’ve ever loved They are a part of me The Lighthouse by Selina Zhang She rose from the dismal mist Piercing the fog with a blade of light It chased back the inky krakens And tamed the sky's lightning forks She was the sailor's friend Who warned of the cove's stone maw She who weathered squalls and rain Calling flocks of ships home She who always waited Patiently, quietly When the blue-loving seagulls had flown away She remained perched at the cove She was Lady Ariadne Who held the thread of light She who wove through the maze of darkness And the men returned home, but not to her Intertwined by Annelise Johnson a tree, reaching its fingers skyward, longs for freedom but is forever bound by its roots. it lives in a world so far removed from the present, because the trees it shares soil with are taking its water. (soon they will take the tree) it lives in a future of its imagination, where It is free, because it is a tree and trees cannot move and all it can do is imagine. it lives in imagination, where It is free, it is a tree with roots, roots do not give way to dreams, all it can do is imagine, ‘soon they will take me,’ it thinks. all it ever wanted was to leave, unravel its roots and run maybe somewhere else, an oak tree will have value (if it doesn't replant fast enough ‘i will die,’ it thinks . ) Mother's Epitaph by Brittney Svendsen Her wheezing lungs breathe in ash and rot, only able to let out a terminal sigh Her jutting teeth of limestone extracted, polished, and disfigured Her tear ducts burn of battery acid as oil seeps into her endless flow of tears Her skin of muddy beauty cloaked by slabs of concrete Her pores clogged with the steel bars of men Her lifeblood drilled and drained Her endless blue eyes shrouded by smog A putrid smell looms in the air A decaying mother. A decaying earth.
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AuthorNorthern Lights is an art and literary magazine full of work from the students of North. Have something to add? Email a submission of writing, art, or photography at [email protected].net |