Featured in this issue is the poetry of Barack Obama, as well as the work of local poets Derek Wood, Ericka Aguilar, and Mary Einfeldt. We are also proud to be a forum for the the artwork of Lauren Rackham and Ashlee Lyman (That's her original work on the left). Scroll below for a preview of Issue Number "3."
For info on getting your very own copy, send a request to SundaySchoolPoets@gmail.com. Please, don't be shy.
Two Poems by Barack Obama
Pop
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he's still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He's so unhappy, to which he replies . . .
But I don't care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from
his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine,
and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites
an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back;
'cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
* ("Shink" may be a typo, but the poem is reproduced as published.)
Underground
Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Rushing water,
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
You Have No Idea
By Mary Eindfeldt
It's really only considered a journey once it's over
And you can look back on it as a whole
It is simply unnumbered days strung together by the thread of consistency.
I will take naps and click at cards during the solitary free hour of my day
And I'll think about that novel in the in between moments
After dishes, before The Wonder Pets.
I write poetry because it takes less time,
And less effort.
I look at my skin.
My keyboard goes un-played
Guitar strings un-plucked
(my car is still uninsured)
I smell like ranch dressing and the heavy sweetness of bug spray
I concentrate on the skin on my nose, and my chin.
It is time to sop saying when this and when that. . .
It really is time.
Now go out and get one. What are you waiting for?
