Here is a compilation of poems written by some of the students here at West Liberty.
By Jodi Neely
it flashes, like the probing blue light of a cop car
throbbing and pulsing
just waiting to come alive
a prisoner in my mind, unable to escape
like the fugitive, cuffed and shackled
so many restraints
struggling for freedom like a shank on a cement block
etching away, but the light doesn’t emerge
words spinning out of control, lost in a dark tunnel
reverberating like a rubber ball on a concrete wall
until finally, the faintest little beam speckled with dust
manifests through the blackness
unsure of itself, but yet shyly determined
to rise from the abyss, shroud the madness in my mind
and stop the blinking cursor
By Elizabeth Miller
Hiding under our desks
no one knows what’s happening
my heart pounding in my throat
“plump, bump” “plump, bump”
the slow tick of the clock
“tut, tut, tut”
soft scared breathes
someone walking towards the classroom
clanking heels, “click, clank”
a loud knock at the door
a state trooper and my mom are there to pick me up
she’s choking back tears
“we can’t go home”
we get outside
“weeh woooh, woop woop”
red and blue lights everywhere
“hmmmph” and barking
my dogs are in my moms car
Why can’t I go home?
Show Me the Sun
By Rachel Stupak
around your slender fingers,
and sun beams play on your lips,
forever parted in the haughty
expression of youth.
You breathe in the daylight,
reaping all the fruits
the seeds of your dreams
have sown in the
You are the monarch of the day.
Creating symphonies with your
The birds send you love notes
on the breeze.
You pulsate with the rain,
and the sea rises up to meet your feet.
Your eyes flutter in the realm of dawn.
Your rabbit heart is light.
An aura blooming with roses,
forever bathed in warmth
of passion for life
and the certainty of death.
By Emily Dawson
“Pfft” pfft” the leaves echo like soldiers falling to their demise,
their lives dreary and drained, struggling to overcome Jack Frost.
“Swoooosh” ceaseless and embracing wind conquers their fortress,
shaking its branches until they are run dry.
“Crunch” “snap” “crunch” the infamous Ugg boots have won the war.
By Laken Lambert
clawing forward through fresh mud—
shaky and confused—
strives to react to the situation
she is faced with.
Run around in circles.
watches her home
spit out billows of coal-black smoke
as they both choke for air.
Giant erasers clapping together, spilling out dust,
fill in the space
of what seems to be one room, one space, one picture.
One picture expands itself
all that exists
in the world.
She becomes a statue—
still, unblinking, and struggling to breathe—
watching as bursts
of orange and red
consume, consume, consume.
Time has stopped. She is stopped in time.
Her heart breaks,
and stiffens in her chest
like fifty bullets shaking in place
To knock her over dead.
I watch myself
pleading with God in desperation—
hoping that he can change the fact.
I cover my head.
I close my eyes.
I try to wish it away,
but it is
into my memory.
By Jacob Flatley
The wind is cool and crisp as harvest is almost here.
I sit on porch drinking apple cider wishing it was a lager,
but the kids are out front after carving pumpkins into jack-o’-lanterns.
next month, it will be time to drink the lager and watch football,
as the turkey cooks in the oven and the spices of pies fill the air.
but right now the crunch and rustle of the leaves are all I can hear,
as the kids act like ghosts.
I begin to feel melancholy about frost on the horizon,
as the leaves decay in October.
By Rachel Stupak
Early morning stillness in the face of inner flames
ghosting over graves of loves I willed away
Reeling through my mind as my body keeps the hours
slowly moving forward through motions well rehearsed
Swaying through the days always in between
feeling all alone and feeling free
This swirling swarm of doubts building in my heart
blocking both the doors in and out
Emptiness ensues missing all the social cues
that could lead me to the shore
Endless introspection spreads like an infection
burning eyes and lungs
Waiting for release and only wanting sleep
the sun will hide itself away and I will do the same
I’ll give all my pain away to the soft night
praying morning light will not come soon
By Kayla Waite
I remember every Sunday morning as one long day,
the weight of the hymnbook pressing down on my lap
as I sat struggling to find the right page,
the piano pounding steadily in the background,
the delicious smell of books that were five times my age,
surrounded by the familiar faces of strangers;
I remember not having the freedom to disagree.