Point Nemo
Kyle Walton,
2019-2020,
Point Nemo has no sun.
Without it, we cannot set a course.
Calm waves slowly caress our ship, luring us closer.
The air’s turning cold, the sun must be setting, we’ll head out at dawn.
Poetry
Late November
Kyle Walton,
2019-2020,
Late-November, windows down,
Parkway lights dashing, caddy cornered to the void
At bay by these windows, older make and model than myself but still holding.
Drumming mechanicals reverberate through the cloth seating
like the rhythmic cacophony of cultists.
Nine Deep
Ian McClelland,
2019-2020,
The open gulf doesn’t care if I’m lost.
I wade, sunburnt amidst the salty
embrace of her andante swell.
Indeed, I’d Go
By: Gloria Newton,
Spring 2019,
For the things that I remember,
Though I don’t remember much,
Harsh Winter
By: Ruby Amanns,
Spring 2019,
Like the cracked skin upon my knuckles
Weeds in My Mind
By: Landry Hazzard,
Spring 2019,
When you speak to me You plant weeds
Stormy Night
By: Erin Sapp,
Spring 2019,
A fragrant Hush of a pine and stone
Giant’s Cheek
By: Victoria E. Elliott,
Spring 2019,
As quickly as it came, the flood waters went.
Fire and Ice
By: Robert Frost,
Translation by: Christina Fleisch,
Spring 2019,
Some say the world will end in fire