I Am The Pioneer [in Gold At 6:19 Am]; Bomb Specific, Number 119; Wharton’s Women; Tattoo; Confessions of the Blackberries

I am The Pioneer

lying along the dusty blonde banks
of the river
choked with grass

sweat runs thick
and dribbles

like the star anise
tumbling behind

the prairie dogs.

the rising
of decaying matter
of leaves and spongy wood

will make the river disappear soon

until nothing’s left
but grains of stale cornmeal
and mustard seed.

dried carcasses
are becoming popular

along these hard-crackle floors

I am The Pioneer to this wrinkled place
old and tired, it is

but I will make it glisten like sesame oil and
swing with bananas and puckered lemons

bright like California mornings
like the sun.


Bomb Specific, Number 119

There isn’t one America
and this picture is not from my country.
Flour blushes their tough black skin
and clouds the air
and that man in the corner,
his shirt’s dirty.
You shouldn’t wear a dirty shirt to a party,
my mother taught me that.
I bet it smells bad too —
reeks of gasoline and liquor
maybe barbeque sauce.
A woman’s dress hugs her skin close
and gathers under her arms.
I can feel its poly-blend
and cracking font
which grazes some team’s name.
There’s probably a speaker in some corner
playing music that makes your hands fly up
and your arms follow.
The air is damp,
foggy and thick with fluster.
I doubt this will end
before the sun comes up.

There really isn’t one America,
an evident gulf divide.
Call us Judas,
us you once called master
so we can keep on
and continue living
after what we did.


Wharton’s Women

With dined pearls
and a heavy musk
which clung in the dips
of her pasty skin
thick yellow
and tight tulle
shaped her
to the order’s delight
sitting with a plush posterity
and evident wealth
in all the ways
she learned.

with white pastry creams
and vermillion cherries
blushed with charm
at the gentleman
thought to be her betrothal
who gifted her
with rich green damask
for her table
her life was set and planned in front of her
and she didn’t mind one bit.



Can you mark me
In dark blue or violet?
You know what,
Do it in violet.

Make it an interesting mark
Something mysterious and wise
I would like to be mysterious and wise

Maybe glasses will help
Some wrinkles, a cape,
And a couple of adventures.

I hope I have many adventures
At least one should be romantic
One insightful
And one like Indiana Jones.

Make a mark that will open adventures up for me
Is this too big of a request?
I would like an adventure if possible, please.

I wonder if experiences come to you
Or if you need to get up and find them
Is there something to help us out
A caller or a guide

I wonder whose experiences I’ve guided
I hope a couple
I’ll see what colors their marks are.


Confessions of the Blackberries

An incipient growth
is not what you’re looking for
by the time the red-winged blackbird returns.

By late spring, eminence is expected.
A warm pleasure should fold over
a burn
getting stronger and stronger –

Smoke whirling from a fire
of dry pale grass in a wheat field.
Until you can’t tell
where the smolder ends
and the clouds begin.

It should have had its time to grow –
now supposed.

Noa Meerschwam, Age 16, Grade 10, Horace Mann School, Gold Key

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