Beauty Secrets, by Jenna Boston

Sometimes we look to much,
Sometimes we look too little.
The mirror becomes a source of our worth,
and we forget to discover the beauty outside of the mirror.
Dip your feet into the ocean,
the milkshake of the earth.
Mixed together an abundance of life,
unseen until we look deeper,
Rays of sunlight illuminate colors,
they take your breath away with every glance.
Taking off the buttons,
revealing this earth,
we begin to take our eyes off of our face,
we begin to embrace,
beauty that has been freely given .
A beauty that runs, that soars,
that flows together with a certain sort of harmony.
We walk red carpets,
and admire these "beauty queens",
then with much time and effort,
we begin to believe that we are pretty.
But see the trees the flowers,
in need of no beautifying effort,
they live simply and humbly.
Beauty is not make up art but what lyes
in the heart, the soul.
When we believe our soul is well,
We can see the beauty that we are simply connected to,
nature.
Our connection and our true mirror,
reminding us that we are nothing but BEAUTIFUL.

Vitamin E, by Rachell Summers

Vitamin E

Vitamin E!
I look in the mirror for the tenth time today
The mirror that is in the hallway
Soft lighting is best and this hall has it.

You wretch! I say to myself out of habit
But then I remember.

Vitamin E!
I look closer and see that it is working
Scarlett O’Hara always believed
A clear complexion could vanquish fate
How I’ve longed for one, scars all gone.

Vitamin E!
A miracle topical salve straight from the capsule
No one knows about this but me
My own secret beauty secret, Vitamin E!

Peace, Rose Myers

Peace

This year the resolutions
will not be set adrift,
As though they were going
nowhere, or somewhere.

Simplicity and clarity
is my goal.
And there will be more than one,
if I can think of them.

There’s a canister on the
kitchen counter.
Can it hold my resolves, my goals,
one by one.

I’ll begin with chocolate,
the good kind especially.
Is it possible to fast a year?
Maybe just on Saturdays.

I know what else, those photos of
babies, big kids, all in boxes.
This year I’ll sort them, or
maybe just box them smaller.

Learn to do poetry, now that’s a chore,
Not something you can purchase at the store.
I wonder if it will be a bore.

Like grains of sand, my resolutions flow,
Into that canister they go,
No one will ever know.

Maybe they are best left there,
They will be kept unspoken, unbroken.
And I will be at peace,
‘Till next year.

Momentum, by Amanda Bell

Momentum by Amanda Bell

A clan of cyclists
Rolling down Soquel today.
Fifteen, maybe, all together.
Circles turning somersaults.
Men in tight clothes
And numbers, blues
And reds. Heads protected,
Eyes behind goggles, shoes
That go click when they stop
(Real quick) climb off, and tap tap
Along the sidewalk to a public restroom.

Where are they going
All together in a bunch
Down a street that’s built
For drivers that zoom
On a busy Saturday afternoon?
Quiet…whoosh….quiet….whirr
Bike lane narrows, cars a blur.

Gloved hands grip the handlebars
Feel the wind as you coast
Down looking around. The group
Spreads as they see the ocean
Rising into view. And the traffic thins
Around them. Just the air and the sun
And the helmets come off.
Although it took half an hour to dress
Like a serious cyclist
One of them turns off suddenly,
Looks back to wave, and sheds
His gear, dropping it off
The side, clip clop, leaving a trail
To find his way back, perhaps?

Wind rushes past his ears.
Tears blur his eyes.
The concrete ends and he bumps
Bumps along the sand with force
For a moment. He sails
And separates from his bike,
Arms circling, legs still pushing
Invisible pedals. And like the greatest
Sports photo, one that wins prizes,
He is frozen like that,
Above the world, out
Of his seat, halfway
To the edge of the continent
From the parking lot. Until his
Consciousness kicks back in and he propels
Himself the rest of the way
To the cold thick sea
Where he swims with what is left
Of his might.

Six-Year-Old Synapses, Amanda Bell

Six-Year-Old Synapses
By Amanda Bell

The pictures that live inside you:
your imagination, the creation of stories
that keep you endlessly occupied,
must be training the connections
between the nerves in your young brain.
The cells are probably still multiplying
in there, preparing you for bigger, better
things that you have to come in your future.

As your mother, my responsibility lies
in nurturing that.

So, I will fill you with organic milk, keep you
clothed in warm sweaters during winter
and answer your questions about
Santa Claus. I will watch patiently
as you struggle across pavement
riddled with cracks that you are trying
so hard not to step on.

I know it takes effort to play.
I know it’s distracting when dragons
and puppies and rainbows, monsters
and numbers and birthdays, even ordinary people
fill your mind and make you guess
what they will do next.

These worlds must be much more interesting
than what I see, as I sip groggily
my morning coffee, trying to explain
to your sister that pancakes are not
an every morning breakfast.
Rice Krispies will do, on a Tuesday.

In the time it has taken me to sit
down at the table, open up my email
browse the news and Facebook, to see
what oh-so-important things have happened
since the Eastern U.S. woke three hours ago
you have created a book store in your room,
yellow post-its with wildly diverse prices stuck
to everything from Dr. Seuss to a collection of
Disney’s best “scary” bedtime stories to an Easy
Reader about all the things you can do with a
cardboard box. (And I think to myself,
that book’s going to cause me trouble…)

So, when I say “why? Oh why? When I asked
You TWENTY MINUTES AGO to brush your teeth
Is your toothbrush STILL DRY?”
And my eyes begin to get crazy and turn
into red laser beams that will surely cut
right through your Toy Story Tee shirt,
look back, my boy, and remind me
that you were busy helping the firefighters
defeat the knights of the dragon castle
And RUN QUICKLY to the sink.

Movement Manifesto, Jessica Markham

Movement Manifesto

Down a long corridor
or a sidewalk stretching into infinity -
Which way will I go?
How far will I travel?
I don't know for certain.

Rhythm is my leader
who takes me beyond limits
and tells me to go, to move,
and so, I press along,
skipping over pavement,
leaping over the cracks.
The sweat beads on my brow
glisten in the sunlight,
shining before they fall.

Falling, stumbling, tripping -
These are possibilities,
but I do not falter.
Instead, I move, I jump,
I skip, I leap, I run
with my shadow nearby me
casting itself thin and long.

--Jessica Markham

MY HUBRIS COLLECTION, Rich Persoff

MY HUBRIS COLLECTION

From the mud of Stalingrad
I want an artillery officer’s
Long-barrelled Luger
With matching part numbers,

An autographed copy
Of Mao’s Little Red Book,

An unretouched original
Photograph of the President
Under ‘Mission Accomplished’,

A wall map of the world
Circa 1924, smeared pink
With the British Empire,

And a pristine Plate Number
Block of ‘Forever’ stamps.

--Rich Persoff