I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.
So little Room — I occupied —
When Breath — withdrew from Me —
The House — enlarged — to wilderness —
And left — Infinity —
The Chair — appeared too vast — for One —
The Bed — a vacant Sea —
The Mirror — kept a hollow Face —
Where once — I used to be —
The Garden — could not find my step —
The Sparrow — ceased — to call —
The Window — bore a foreign Sun —
And Shadows — claimed the Wall —
So small a Claim — upon the Earth —
I scarcely seemed — to own —
Yet Absence — proves — how large a Space —
Is missing — when I'm gone —
the dogs are frenzied about something
because we took the car out
they know we are leaving
because we took the car out
we cannot pretend it is not so
because we took the car out
I wore my mind like a corset—tight, laced, unseen—
while the world asked me to smile with lipstick teeth
and stir the soup without stirring the storm inside.
There were mornings I woke as if embalmed,
already dressed in the hush of death's silk slip,
no reason, no riot—just a fog that would not lift.
The walls of my room pulsed like veins
and the mirror whispered lies in a female voice:
You are failing. You are too much. You are not enough.
I was the soft thing breaking beneath
a century of silence stitched into my sex,
taught to hush the howl and cradle the ache.
My hands shook when folding towels.
My heart stuttered at the scent of soap.
There was no name then for the madness.
Just "hysteria," like a curse tucked under my skirt,
and doctors who told me to marry or pray.
No pills yet. No lifeboats. Just poems or the end.
So I chose the door
that closed softer than the others.
Not for drama—
but for rest, for mercy,
for the silence to finally match
the silence within me.
If I'd been born later, maybe
there'd be lithium instead of letters.
But time gave me verse,
and verse gave me wings too torn to fly.
The night pressed in with a velvet hand,
I was so tired, you’d understand.
All day the world had sung its song,
But not for me—I did not belong.
The streets were lit, the windows warm,
Yet none could shield me from the storm.
I wore my smile like Sharon's borrowed dress,
While hollow winds moved through my chest.
I thought of spring, I thought of rain,
Of all I loved that could not remain.
There was no anger, only release,
A soft surrender, a will toward peace.
I let the darkness close me in,
It felt like love beneath my skin.
Do not weep, for I am free—sigh,
The world was never meant for me.
took a bullet in my brain
no refrain
no restrain
in a war I feel the pain
war is horrible for both sides
there is no place for us to hide
death or glory? You are kidding right?
so many lay dead on that first night
where’s the glory in killing so many young?
horrible reality, where’s the fun?
I’ll never again fully see the sun
no refrain, no restrain, my work is never done.
He took a walk
to see the view.
They found a sock.
A rose, he threw.
Blue was the sky -
the ocean, too.
He wondered why.
They found a shoe.
A bluff so high,
an eagle flew.
He could not fly.
His love was true.
A blood-red rose,
and then he knew,
and so time froze.
The tide withdrew.
I slept at the foot of the mountain,
There’s cheese in the trap waiting,
Bait out the prey,
Counting out every second it’s taking.
Haven’t ate in several days,
In a week.
Listen for the snap,
Now there’s dinner in the trap waiting.
I forgot my second language,
Guess I have nothing worth saying.
Thank god for this dinner,
Practice patience by leaving my plate untouched,
I haven’t finished or even begun praying.
Blue meats,
I need my flames for American Spirits and Marlboro’s I’ve been partaking in.
They moved like dawn through shadowed years,
With quiet hands and blazing hearts,
Their dreams outshone the weight of fears,
They rewrote fate in fractured parts.
Marie lit atoms' trembling core,
Her lantern glowed through science' veil;
While Rosa sat and shook the war
Of silence—made the strong rails pale.
Malala, bright with sharpened pen,
Still sings where tyrants silence books;
Jane healed the lives of chimp and den,
With patient heart and watching looks.
Ada wove numbers into flight,
A code that danced before the light—
They rose like stars from time's deep sea,
And left a map for you and me.
You never said "I'm leaving"
You never said "good-bye"
You were gone before we knew it
And only God knows why
In life I loved you dearly
In death I love you still
In my heart I hold a place
That only you can fill
It broke my heart to lose you
But you didn't go alone
A part of me went with you
The day God took you home
@Amy Bohack
Disconsolate obsidian waves crash over crumbling dunes,
Sweeping afflicted grains of sand back into the depths,
Dragging my paralysed soul with them.
Engulfed in despondent riptides,
I gasp for oxygen amongst rippling currents,
As a fiery moon hangs precariously overhead.
Blood-red reflections illuminate the stark waters,
While calls of the lost sing to me,
Like sirens beckoning sailors to their doom—
Louder and louder, until it becomes unbearable.
Flaring arms fill with cortisol,
Burning, tangled within suffocating seaweed.
Farther I get pulled from the shore;
The horizon is growing fainter now with every somber beat of my heart.
Isolation shrouds the thickening atmosphere.
Saline leaks into my mouth, drying my tongue as I frantically spit it out.
Hysterical laughter escapes through lips without realisation.
Dehydration overcomes.
Sanity slips with each sip of water.
My larynx sharply tightens—
Barely a noise can be uttered.
Yet the siren calls of the irretrievable continue to crescendo,
Pulling me into an empty expanse, everlastingly.
She taught me to pray
with hands that bruised the bread
and sometimes, me.
The kitchen smelled of cinnamon,
but the corners were quiet with grief.
I was loved--loudly, then not at all.
Her laugh could warm
a whole December,
but silence followed when I needed June.
She carried me like gospel,
until I questioned her scripture.
Then, I became her quiet sin.
Still--
I make her biscuits in the same bowl,
sing her lullabies to my own child,
and when I cry,
I still hide it in the pantry.
Line count: 20.
Free verse format.
Title: 5 words or fewer.
Oscillating emotions: check.
Perspective: child.
Tone: honest, restrained, poignant.
Author’s Note:
This poem is for the many mothers who tried, and the children who learned to love them with both gratitude and grief. My mom was a good woman in many ways, but not everything was easy. I wrote this for the moments that shaped me--both warm and hard--and for the child who once cried quietly behind a closet door.
Sadly what you think you see,
Is based off the opinions of the world's decrees,
If you search from the outside and not from within,
If you don't erase the biased opinions before you begin,
The idea of the outside settles and starts to paint the picture,
And if you never wiped away the thought the heart will go back and remember,
And add to the idea of what you think you see,
Because you listened to everyone else instead of just looking at me,
Because at the end of the day everyone has everything based on an opinion,
When a majority of the time they are completely wrong because they never took the time to look inward.
Hippo felt like a million dollars today
He had dressed himself happy and gay
Took a selfie which went viral right away
Hippo strutted around I.O.Way
I've come to see that life is a journey
A destinationless one
Guided not by compass or map
But by the steps we take as we move.
We often choose the well-worn path
Drawn to where the crowd has gone.
Others dare the lesser roads
Chasing the thrill of the unknown.
Afraid of what I couldn’t see
I chose the road most traveled
Not to follow but to learn
To trust the footprints of experience.
And here I am, still journeying
Walk, run, pause, then onward again.
Sometimes I hear voices from afar…
I suppose I haven't strayed too far.
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