by Timnah Rosenshine
I long to climb the Blue Ridge Mountains
To reach the divide between the haze
Smudge your thumb over my exterior
and I will become your horizon line.
Just as visible as Providence charcoal
in the rain.
I dream of the plunge at Crater Lake
Perhaps I’d be heavy enough to sink the
six thousand, one hundred and seventy one feet
In what I am told are Multnomah Falls
As you watched on from Cascade Range
Finally out of film.
I want to smell the Redwood Forest
I’m told it’s scent is North of Eureka
on the corner of Ladybird Grove.
I will bury myself in pine and reek of Jesus’ rebirth
If it will get you off of the Goddamn Hollywood Hills.
14,505’ Mount Whitney is the best sleep I’ll ever get. Throwing off my osprey to know the wind.
Take my nightmares to the clouds
and let me wake to see the one thing
Ansel Adams never would.
I could not forgive your Utah exhaustion
And am far too paranoid to tell you
that you don’t matter to anyone,
in the slightest sense,
as I shed my desires in the midst of greatness
making you, and all of us,
Petty and Pale
in comparison with Woody Guthrie
and the Grand Canyon.
by Sasha Kogan
Above the twisting, churning,
mindless sleepwalkers buried in
and the brown brick stacked buildings,
the feathery blue expanse surrounds us.
Endless, infinite, and often forgotten;
And dispersed amongst the watercolor,
floating cotton, moving gently, dreamily watchful,
colors melt upon the soft exterior,
touched faintly by gold,
vaporous tufts dissolving, amending.
Winged shadows passing by,
if only for an instant,
see what you so often pass
and open up those eyes.
by Will Mosko
A man elect
Was the man select
A noxious voice
Who had the choice
To dance with wolves
Cajole the wool
Our herald soon heralded
The noteworthy bull
A harbinger of doubt
Said slim chance of rout
Our mayor had relinquished
His twisting for shouts
Insatiable at best
We grew on his chest
A man of his people
Had no family crest
Beneath all the sham
There lied a good man
Died one day a lion
Lived thousands a lamb
Symphonies of a Free Bird
by Sasha Kogan
What purpose have I
to open my eyes?
What bittersweet envelope
of didactic teachings
will arrive on the doorstep
of my endlessly churning mind?
Dark forests surround me,
liquid shafts of light glistening;
I breathe the scent of pine,
sweet and decadent.
Thoughts of love set my heart aflame,
images of death dance
beneath my eyelids.
From the depths,
come the bitterly frigid winds
I smile, the tentative mix
of sweetness and the baring of teeth.
I smile, truly;
because in these endless woods,
what other option have I?
by Sasha Kogan
Deep beneath the glittering pearls,
among twisted crimson corals,
and drifting soundlessly through the sand:
here, close your eyes,
listen to the shifting shoals
sift your fingers through handfuls of diamonds.
Echo your heartbeat,
reverberate your soul,
cleanse the waves with your serenity.
Feel the pulse of the ocean,
open your eyes;
by Georgios Beno
A Paradise lost, it won't be found
Just like Atlantis, we will drown.
Equal to El Dorado, we are gold
Or is that just what we're told.
We might become Ghost Towns like the Wild West
Manifest Destiny, is that still our quest?
Don't be foolish, don't be Troy
Don't set yourself up for someone to destroy
Your body, your soul, your holy temple
The shrines in Timbuktu are just one example.
How do you all expect to have a utopia?
If you're not willing to help the kids in Ethiopia.
Ode to Montreal
by Hillel Rosenshine
Down in the wily winter willows is an enclave,
A tooth carved from ice, and thawed,
The plentiful barren,
The peaceful drift
Of the wild.
Down in the metro,
Europe in a nutshell,
North America in an eggshell,
White washing the windows.
A glance is seldom passed,
A scarcity of admiration for the beauty in Canadian bones,
A somber commute, sapped of intimate stares.
I believe you melted,
That you were not ripped from your mother,
Not sewn with patriotic yarn,
You are a healthy recovery.
Yet, a dull example for humanity.
A lack of vibrancy.
A penchant for disappointment.
J'ne se pas
J'ne par le par francais
I am infuriated by your bore,
Your limits to motivation,
There is something wrong
Because there is nothing wrong
Why aren't you dramatic?
How are you sated?
In the summer, a bike ride through evergreen.
In the winter, ski marks on Mont Royal, and the place where one falls and cuts their chin on ice,
Little red on big white,
Bleeding all the way home.
I am shape-shifted by the silence of movement.
Excuse my American humor.
I promise, my jokes and chides will choke in thin air.
I promise, my clumsy French will drift beneath glaciers.
I love your solace,
Your little chunk of Inuit wonderland,
Your speck of white hinterland.
And as my words fade on frosted windows,
That I am not angry,
And that I simply do not understand.
by Will Mosko
Teach me to write your villanelle
These worries shout loud,
Then quiet down well
Our fears, the shadows
Rest up in hell
And us, the spirits
Lay here and dwell
On mental games,
With mindless frames
I question, I ponder
Thoughts only inane
This hideous find,
Brings cumbersome binds,
Its twisted reflections,
Soon consume my mind
Yet, all is well
With your villanelle
Sick critters, they wander
My doubts are dispelled
For reason has come,
Survivors are none
Your verse is complete
Now I’ll show you one
by Louisa Oreskes
Rate your self amongst the others
You seemed to think love is all maroon
Eradicate the courage you had, brother
I donate my admiration, and can bring you to the moon
When the mail started coming
Shrinking all my playground scars
You told me to keep on drummin’
While I gnawed on candy bars
Uprooted, Paris, White House, Bangkok
Wobbled on a cobbled London street
Irreparable wounds, sized to cinder blocks
Now fearing you never got back on your feet
You taught me how to love the game
Regardless of the wins and losses
More the title waves you overcame
And the smell of the fences hidden mosses
All in good time, coming home from your new life
Only to catch my fickle eyes, tickling tears, and tired tries
My air now is dyed with lack of your infections strife
That kept me onward, so to find truth in Clinton’s lies
I can’t wait until you meet a girl
Go on and show her our crazy world
by Will Mosko
i was born not pretty
with gestures, i giggled
and i smiled
i was born with French
with the remonstrance
cogs and gears
moan the decadence
of a true renaissance man
I was born not pretty
with glasses to objectify
it bursting on the scene