Poetpourri

Charles Liedl, Undeclared

Water Street Lot

She pulled out of her Ford and

fumbled routinely for a purse that carried joy

She saw the wind blow the students to class

in assonance like trout swept

begrudgingly to a new river bed

Her Ford staring at me through

the snow speckled windshield, white

coat grimed and eager for a bath

Her tires pointed indifferently, bald but

for the grey sludge of the roads

She was gone before I looked up from

my lit cigarette

There it was and is

In the foreground of the piece

painted before my eyes

I saw her vestige, a coffee mug stranded

on the roof of Edsel's descendant, leaning perilously

close to the air below it, then

I decided to write

 Ashly Curtis – Creative Writing/Undergrad
Kayla Johnson – Political Science & Print Journalism/Undergrad

The Haiku Herald Vol. I

sneaky ACORN “pimps”
right-wing wolves in sheep’s clothing
Watergate-esque fail

Pat Robertson, please
can’t you just leave Haiti be?
devil pact, my ass

Obama’s new dream
stoney-faced reps disagree
‘least their hands were warm

Jessica Engen

Sophomore

Social Work

"Senseless"

this is not poetry,
this senseless
compilation
of random thoughts,
questions to your-
self
and random, harsh
repetitions
paired with
profanities displaying
your classless-
ness out of
lack of things to say.
the inconsistent
variability of your
"work,"
comparable to a
pre-teen girl's diary,
at best,
is unnecessary and embarrassing
to you, as well as me.
i'd rather you
submit a
raised extremity
than a-
nother of your
sorry rants,
sparing us the pain
that you
proclaim you
can't stand enduring.
i hope that my submission
fills your all too apparent
need
for the attention
that you crave
by subjecting FlipSide
readers
to your latest diary entry.
Sorry to insult.
Love, Jessica.

Paul Van Rooy
Sophomore
Physics/Engineering Dual Degree Major


Love after Life

I look at her.
Thick red blood still dried to her cheeks like she just died yesterday.
She is missing something.
Her eyes.
Eyes as grey as death.
They gaze at me from the floor.
I pick them up and place them back into her skull.
She smiles; crooked and yellow.
"Thank you dear, what would I ever do without you?"
Very little if you keep leaving your eyes next to the fire place, I think to myself.
"I do not know darling," I reply as I try to scratch several of my internal organs, "could you give me a hand here?"
She passed me her hand.  I scratched my lower intestine and liver.
"Thanks muffin."
"My pleasure, sweetie."
She walks away.  Damn, she looks good.
Hair similar to mine when I was 93.
Lips like ice; blue and cold.
Her skin a beautiful shade of green with a just tint of gold and white.
I call her my daisy because of that lovely skin of hers.
She decomposed so well.
"Dinner is ready dear!"
"Okay my daisy, be there in a second! What did you make tonight?"
"Rat stew!"
"Did you leave out the mushrooms this time like I asked?"
"No my love, I am sorry, I forgot"
Ugh.
672 years together.
Still, she forgets how much I hate mushrooms.

Autumn Wilson

Senior

English Literature/Theatre Arts

Picasso

If we meet again

At the crossroads of the trees

All I can say

 Is kiss me

Put your oxygen into my veins

Stop my world

Stop my heart

Nothing else is appealing

About you

Except your deadly addictive kisses

When our mouths

Our breath, our tongues

Are joined

Everything turns Picasso

You lay me down

In a public place

I don’t know how it happens

Nipping, kissing

First my neck then yours

Your breath becomes

A sigh, a moan

Painful at times to go on

To stop

Hands run through my hair

My scalp tingles

Like the rest of my body

Never-ending, never-ending

Back arches as you hold me

Never-ending-Never-ending

I open my eyes and realize I’ve stopped walking

Even after all this time

My lips still carry the burn

Of your Picasso kisses

Smiling

I walk forward

By: Lisa Brancaccio, Undergrad, Print Journalism

Title: It's About Time

it’s about time
you started missing me.
you’re telling me
all you want
is to be kissing me.
is this how
it’s going to be?
you had me for so long,
so was it so wrong
for me to believe
that as soon as you’d leave
i’d have to find a new
way to live,
a new person
to give my heart, my love?
now your love flocks,
but my love
is sold out,
out of stock.
(Putnam Love Stock!)
it’s about damn time
you started missing me.
there you go,
you’ve done it again.
you’ve changed the
definition of ‘friend’
and now i’m left alone
to mend my befuddled mind
thanks to all the
fucked up signals you send.
you refuse to lend me your heart,
yet you make changing your stance
a disastrous art.
i shouldn’t give you a chance,
but if, by chance,
you could agree to
just let me be yours,
it just might work out.
you are the source of my
heartbreak and happiness,
and i am the source of your
comfort and stress.
this mess is out of hand,
but i stand where i stand
when i say
just let me be me
and it’s about time
you started missing me.