The Voice of Butte College
since 1997
Reader Submissions
Poetry Competition
Starchild
Justin Mcclarrinon
Love your life,
share your gifts,
we all thank you.
To the center of the universe,
we return as one,
having lived,
still alive,
love.
-JWM
The Best of the Best
"freedom is to tolerate contradiction"
Emily Jones
No one holds me; I hold myself
accountable
And there's no holding back
Only forward motion
of wind in my face
Submerge me in silence
so all I can hear is the sharpness of the air which surrounds me
and the fierceness of feeling
from deep within my pelvic bowl
to my sternum, where my heart beats in unison with the setting sun
And snow blows down
while I witness flames high in the sky
with my eyes.
Ice
And fire.
It can keep burning
but I'll never stop
"spiral into me"
Emily Jones
It's not a nautilus, you say
And I believe you
You know about such things
But your love is like a leaky roof and the rain is acid
Burn eats into my stomach
And I know it isn't love Because
If it was
Your love would feed me
I know about such things
Instead
Your love is like a bright sky if the sun is fire and I can't run fast enough
Your love is like my balance when I venture out onto a tightrope
Non-existent
"I'll catch you when you fall," love says.
So I fall
into myself
Because no one's ever there
Woonsocket’s Blueberry Bluff
Jen White
Rows of 1950s Chevy coupes
gravely rusted coppered red,
wheelless & rested on cinder blocks
aligned to face each other’s shattered
headlights. Bodies of sharpened edges,
a meter between them, encircled by acres
of blueberry bushes.
Most visitors at the pick-your-own
ignore the coupes, pretend steel skeletons
are invisible behind the sagging barn,
brazen facades of immortality
as wandering souls pluck Legacy
from thickened barrens.
Coronavirus Zion
Jessica Walls
This dystopian scene.
Not science fiction, but science reality.
Something that as a kid, I always had the strange premotion I would live.
Now here it is. (And I know this is it.)
Without an oracle we walk the streets unknowingly.
Many of us don’t think that we have been bugged,
When the virus is already inside of us.
It duplicates faster than agent Smith,
With numerous, alarming variants.
An organic code that will not leave us alone.
For in this world, what may be most frightening, most disturbing,
Is that what we now fear is not machines, but other human beings;
And it is the technology on which we now have been forced to lean in order to achieve many things (or in some instances, anything).
In that way, we are in the inverted Matrix,
Where things make even less sense.
Not one bullet can fly in this war,
For in that manner our assailants we cannot fight, we cannot hit. Do they even exist?
That is the question posed by many,
But we are indeed battling a microscopic army.
Feeling safer solo inside our own homes,
We rely heavily on our phones just to receive a “Hello” and learn the information we need to know. However, each of us could be a hero like Trinity and Neo,
Who were willing to sacrifice themselves for everyone else.
Sadly, there are those unwilling to wear a piece of cloth to protect others’ health----
Or even to keep themselves well.
What is this time period?
This terrifying new realm?
Will we survive?
Like Morpheus I believe.
I believe that if we truly work together and gain understanding, we will be alright. Because it is not the sixth version of me saying these things.
I do not mean to sound as though I am scolding or begging.
I simply pose the question:
Has history not previously taught us such lessons?
That is why we have to get this right.
No simulation---only one concrete, finite life.
A Letter To Congested Fingertips: an observation of my generation
By Adrian Pedraza
in that o’ so sacred world of mouth-breathers, kid-heathens, and the like. uneven paths of pure, unbridled rage and mystery detours of certain strangeness. a particular place where a sorry south fears the worst for their unbothered holy lands and the rest of us are left to deal with their obscenely sensitive consequences...this little world of pen-clickers, short-wickers, and nose-pickers, but who stands above thee? with gold in their write and ink in their soul?--maybe few, none found decisively, ive yet to see if this character truly exists. maybe in the form of a deity, perhaps already diminished–perhaps youd like to come out of the woodwork, kind stranger–or maybe u are kept a mystery for the better (that is, so i–i mean we–can take the lead! hehehehe!) i digress. for in a short shadow, i pee myself and in the littlest of warm winter days i complain over and over again...like u (maybe) and when the tickling ants finally wash over me in a burst of spring showers, i have little to do but regret all the hassle i gave my 65-degree december morning, for now i am faced with a 95-degree august evening–yikers...anyway, i guess we can agree that some of our kind–and i wont name off anyone in particular (me & u, me & u, pal!)--take with us every subject we hear with a smile and digest it with one easy-to-make, easy-to-understand, word smoothie, which goes down with an easy enough swallow that we feel good about ourselves. easy easy easy. sometimes even better than those stagnant and still work hours, yknow, those bright-screen-dark-theater type crispy blue skies and sharp-nail chills...which seems to probably be a problem, probably, but to continue my long-winded point, the apples of eve and all the pretty snakes beforehand sound and taste rather sweet when we got nothin’ better ta do. for example, when searchin the odd sun-tanned roads and new-come paths of them old woods by yr house, ya seem to pick up every pretty stone, crooked branch, and lovely feather u find, which isnt too much a sin, until u come across that slithering reptile tongue i spoke briefly about before. i mean he looks pretty enough and hes just dancing right there, slithering around and whistling those hypnotic tunes, mix with his words. hell, some friends have joined the bop already...so ya pick him up. coulda done anything but ya picked him up. now i aint gonna blame ya cuz why would i? given the chance my sorry searchin ass woulda done the exact same thing! hell i woulda checked to see if there was any more and stuffed em all in my cargo pant pockets pretending i didnt all care that much and hoping no one else knew how much i did. so once u got that slimy lil thing then wut? well it bites ya of course silly! i mean what the hell are reptiles good for anyway? they bite and it bit ya and yr stuck with the consequences of a snake bite. yr skin turns yellow, yr eyes glow red, and u want to destroy! destroy! destroy!...like any ol victim would. but also, o yeah, thats the thing, u aint the victim no longer, u have succumbed to the woods and are one with the snakes. that means reptilian eggs coming out of yr bumhole (i think???) but also u are what u hated: a total ninny. yessum, thats right plain and simple. angry, confused, and all the rest. “but dear writer” u ask in a plea of despair, “how may i escape the wretched clutches of this snake, thats got his razor coil wrapped o’ so very tightly against my soft baby neck and innocent baby hands???” and i respond with the ‘all-knowing’ following: go for a walk, u. and start a lovin’ a lot more, my dear sibling. maybe a few apologies too. show dont tell. these antagonists like to come fast, hard, & without warning–when u spot them coming for u, step out of the way.
