how about 15 minutes of pain
of death of isolation
of the hard cold desolation
of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness
How about 15 minutes of game
of mirth of decimation
of ego of will
of the cold distraught smell of defeat
or 15 minutes of blame
of insecurity and pain
when life is just a game
who cares who you are
or what you become in the long run
it doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter
what you scored or who you got to splatter
How about; about this; about that
when is your 15 minutes are up
who’s gonna carry your torch,
your flame, and your burden
Category > Poetry
15 Minutes of Fame, Brant Nevin
Hurt. , By Brandt Nevin
A springbok, and a stream,
In a melancholy dream
Remind me what you did to me.
My heart, torn at the seams.
Not wanting to stay
Not wanting to speak.
But wanting to be
Link the springbok at the stream
On that sunless day.
Untitled, by Brandt Nevin
When do the birds that fly
Come out at night
leaving us all behind
Who knows the reaper
Who fears that which they know
Why dont the birds that fly
come out at nightWhy do the birds that sing
sing at night
Telling the story of their plight
The blackness in which they blend
And so nicely they fend
Sacing their lives, and their childrens’ too
Where are the birds, forever doomed
Come out at night
leaving us all behind
Who knows the reaper
Who fears that which they know
Why dont the birds that fly
come out at nightWhy do the birds that sing
sing at night
Telling the story of their plight
The blackness in which they blend
And so nicely they fend
Sacing their lives, and their childrens’ too
Where are the birds, forever doomed
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the crowds are far below me
There’s a land that is made of
The milk and the honey too.
And wake up where the crowds are far below me
There’s a land that is made of
The milk and the honey too.
To a Dying Artist (A La Fin), by Joanne Ho
A little birdie, in her flight to the north,
slipped beneath my door and left a fair warning:
“The fire is soon to die; he lost his light in the storm.”
She shook the black ash from her wings and took off into the wind.
Powerless now, I can only give you my words…
Listen to me, my singing flame—
did you know that you were my disaster?
For your passion puts to shame anything I can ever paint.
A god? No…
The gods know not the sting of their own arrogance;
Your modesty binds you to this earth…
But an artist… yes, an artist, you are
an almighty roman fortress, a blossom in a cherry tree,
that cloudy shape in the dull summer sky that spoke to me,
and you were my singing flame whose kind verses kindled a blaze.
Do you remember me? I was your shadow as you crawled through the desert…
I could see your black velvet halo—
those ancient vultures circling above your head.
(I heard them, love… I heard them—
and they’ll talk shit,
and they’ll talk with a temper,
they’ll eat you, dead or alive,
if you let them bother.)
But oh, my dying artist,
when their dreadful screeches are all you hear: I’ll be your mockingbird.
(Because a shadow needs her casting flame
and even gods, in time, yearn for an oasis’s cool embrace.)
Beautiful, I love what you do—
so do what you do,
and let no one stop you.
Theory by Joanne Ho
title: “after countless nights alone with a telescope, i found a theory that may explain our falling out.”
the hypothesis:
we were not always like this, all swords and nothing.
map out our life on a timeline, and you would see something like tides.
i would never call it shallow, but certain
barriers
make a difference when discussing depths and distance.
materials and procedures:
“i’ve never had a boyfriend because the boys i loved only played with girls who live on mountain tops.”
“i love her and she loves me, but the key word here is ‘best friend’ and i’m not sure if we should keep weaving.”
step one, and the only:
mix.
the experiment:
pay attention now, you don’t want to miss this;
i dissected our conversations down to the blueprints.
the words we thought sounded like “i love you”
were the echoes of our lonely lives, stretched to compensate unrequited affection.
when we set our relationship out to sea,
we forgot a mathematician.
experimental error:
here is where chemistry lessons would have mattered more than calculations:
a few weeks on the ocean, we sailed without a clue of navigation.
we were no sailors, but the waves felt like a flower bed, but
s e p e r a t e
the molecules; dissolve and extract evidence . . .
. . . . . the conclusion:
salt water and sand
share atomic structures.
fear and love was only in our minds;
we let it shape ambiguity into fantasies.
scientifically speaking,
you and i
never left the shore.
Hush, Hush by Joanne Ho
it’s you! the dirty culprit,
the fire licking my bones,
the sunny eyes splashing smiles across
a tired soul.
you tied
a balloon around my heart, fashioned a bow, and exclaimed,
“ta-da! I AM here! and happiness! is YOURS!”
you grinned.
and i tripped over a hill of joy, headfirst into your happy valley,
where i came to find,
you already lived happily
with your wife.
i made haste;
i wound my arms like ribbons (,like shackles,) around your waist
and i tied a lie around my eyes: a blind, stupid knot
(around stolen property).
winding, winding, charmeuse highways around your body.
winding, winding,
i liked my work of art.
winding, winding,
until
i
made
a
leash.
hush hush.
your
sunshine
splashed no more.
hush… hush.
i crawled
back to my winter.
sweet,
come back to my forest, please
, and scorch my trees again.
i want your ember in my bones; again,
and, hear,
my heartbeat resound with
apology;
(hush, hush.)
i promise
to leave my ribbons in the fireplace
if you keep
weaving your sunsets
around my heart.
