Students share work for National Poetry Month

I hate honey. 

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I don’t like the texture

or the taste

or the smell. 

Everyone likes it.

She likes it. 

But it’s awful – it’s sticky. 

It sticks, it sticks, it sticks. 

But she likes it

and I would bathe in it for her.

I would learn beekeeping 

and make honey just for her. 

I would spread it on her toast 

and let her lick the spoon after. 

I would make myself love honey 

just to call her lover. 

~ Daisy L 


5:55 A.M.  

“Look,” said the trees. “Over here,”  

but outside the window, they’re suspiciously still.  

“Listen,” said the birds. “To the song.”  

but now it seems the tune 

has come and gone.  

Church bells ring “Ave Maria”-  

a similar nostalgia  

to the rapid sensations 

I search to understand 

but still don’t.  

The date Saturday, 1/29,  

the number 2051,  

a forgotten twenty-dollar bill  

in my old glasses case, 

swimming with whales  

in my night time delusions 

and the following statement:  

“Planes are always off course, 

Constantly making corrections.”  

I wonder where I’m being corrected to.  

~ Pearl Bellomo 

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