Another wish fell from the sky today
They watched it scrape the view behind the door
She winds the clock when all have gone away

The street beneath the bus’s wheels was gray
And at her hands, the wind and water tore
Underneath the awning, still she stays

The room grew small, and nothing you could say
Would lift her sunken face above the floor
She winds the clock when all have gone away

They said that anything could be okay
While every song that played made him unsure
When the whole world is silent, still she stays

She gazed out of her window at the day
It looked just like the letters from before
She winds the clock when all have gone away

They hide their eyes, not knowing what to say
Their feet won’t dust the staircase anymore
She winds the clock when all have gone away
When everything is broken, still she stays

– Ellen Labitzke

Rain had poured life into the park, a perfect green
That flowed, boundlessly, beneath the moon’s patient shine
His face was concealed beneath that tilted, gray hat,
And she turned her glance to the pavement, her blurred
Image of the world concentrated on the solid path
As the stars whispered warnings into the warm night

She knew that clarity could be lost in the embrace of night
And silently thanked the world’s lamps and cars for exposing the green
Truth around her; They helped her remain on a steady path,
And she felt safe because the moon was not the only shine
To guide her. Tonight it seemed blurred,
And it rested on the dreamy Earth like a hat

She wished that she had brought her own hat
And, beneath it, she too could vanish into the deep night
Becoming clear while everything else blurred
Beyond her wooden bench and the wispy, green
Moss that floated down from above, she would shine
And never look back down that neatly paved path

Sometimes, you never reach the end of your path
Collecting hope like coins in an overturned hat
And that persistent moon will continue to shine
Insisting that you rest and stay another night
And one day your trust will turn gold from green
And that sign in the distance will no longer be blurred

Her moonlit face was softly blurred
By the heavy night that encompassed their path
He saw that her eyes matched the world’s green
Promise. Tears of winter welcome leaves of spring. He removed his hat
And placed it gently in her hands. He felt the night
Close in around them, and the soft-spoken air seemed to shine.

Above benches, trees, and buildings, the moon will shine
Gazing lovingly upon a time that is often blurred
By the bustling day as it meets the graceful night
And, as each gives the other a knowing glance, their paths
Run steadily on in opposite directions. Only the tilt of a hat
Hints that their binding purpose will remain a vibrant green.

And the moon strengthens its shine as she lifts the hat
And sets it on the gravel path. It is consumed by a merciless night,
And, beyond her blurred reply, a single star blinks its distant green

– Ellen Labitzke

I am the moonlight on an empty canvas
Swirling clouded water in a jar
I paint this night so that it may last
A tiny spot to match each star

I am every stroke of my brush
Strokes of the clock’s harsh hand
I am the hours; I never rush
A painted world at my command

But you march in, fling open my door
Spin me around before I can ask why
Spill most of the paint on the dark wood floor
The rest you splatter across my sky

Though unplanned, when the paint has dried
I am not completely unsatisfied

– Ellen Labitzke

Tiny steps across wet pavement
You grasp my hand as I attempt
Not to ruin my satin shoes
And then we are dancing
The ground is slippery
But you catch me as I am about to
Fall

The rain has become smaller and
Lighter
I hesitantly close my umbrella

I glance up
And notice that
Under the streetlamp
I can see each tiny, individual
Drop
Slowly gliding to meet me

And then you’ve gone

You laugh to yourself as you walk away
The golden light of streetlamps rests
Softly
On your hair

I call you back
But realize that I have nothing to say
So I smile
And wave goodbye
And you smirk
And turn around
And the pearl necklace
That I must have been sliding through my fingers

Snaps
And each pearl crashes into the gutter
By the curb
Like raindrops

– Ellen Labitzke

I will think of you as I lay in my sterile sheets tonight.
The moon sends her soft glow over my paralyzed form.
My eyes trace the emptiness of the room I now inhabit.
The books, yellow and rotting, release their subtle perfume into the air.
I wish for sleep, and close my eyes.
Your shape is all I see and it haunts me in my dream.
I yearn for your touch, and I acquire it only in fantasy.
My mind writes the story I desire, the world as I crave it to be.
I am King, and you are Queen.
Your countenance the emblem of my palace.
Your eyes the light in which I thrive.
Your innocence my pillar of sanity.
Your beauty more sustaining than the earth I command.
Your form the very image of the Goddess herself.
Within you I confess my insecurities.
Within you I become weak.
Within you I trust my life.
Within you I sense the beginning.
Within you I embrace the impossible.
I live to protect you from those who hunger for your pain.
I direct my armies to secure your being.
I shed the blood of the guilty to maintain your sacred existence.
I burn the evil of the land to ease your mind.
I watch over you to preserve your untroubled sleep.
All in which I accomplish I do in your name.
I fear the trivial passing of time, as it brings us closer to the epilogue of life.
However, if you retain nothing from our years together, remember this:
My love is forever.
And it evermore resides with you.

– Anna Haley

Let’s make love instead of lies
And watch the world, much like spies
We never should want to cut the ties
Nor taunt the boy when he cries
Let’s follow as the eagle flies
So beautiful, across the skies
Listen to the collective sighs
Certain as the sun shall rise
And as we look into your eyes
We shall forever fantasize

– Anne Stanley

Cold water in small quantities
is still enough to wake
the sleeping man
from his dream of colored pinwheels
and tissues which don’t chap his nose
Dry.
Submerged in sleep, he dreams
of umbrellas
which, when the rain falls,
is a cacophony of sound:
thud thud thud
like beads on a hardwood floor.
This is how the rain would sound,
he dreams,
before the cold water makes him
awake.

– Caity Tremblay

I am,
Not, what you say I am
Because I am a being of many things
So many things that if I were to count them
Trust me, I would need more fingers
Life isn’t about who you think I am
Or what you see me to be
It is who I am, and what I see
That defines those many things
And those that you don’t get
The ones you choose to ignore
Those are the ones that mean the most

You have your image
I have mine
One defines, one denies
Denies me of the things that you think I can’t do
Cause to you, I am nothing
But to me, I am more
More than you could be
Whether you grew, whether you changed
I am because I want to be
Not because you say so
Your words are empty and to me are just a sympathy
But not for my heart to hear
They are for your own bruised ego
Something that you cannot tell

Unfortunately, you will get nothing
Because I am better, I am stronger
And no matter what you say
I will always be better, every single day

– Jacob Silverman

This is New York City

This is the woman
Who lives in New York City

This is the time
Of the determined woman
Who lives in New York City

This is a scarf
That warms the throat
Of the careful woman
Who lives in New York City

This is a director
Holding the clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the talented woman
Who lives in New York City

This the world on a golden stage
Ruled by the director
Holding the clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the dedicated woman
Who lives in New York City

These are the taps and the looks and the sighs,
The crimson curtains of the golden stage
Owned by the director
Holding the clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the passionate woman
Who lives in New York City

This is a man in a crisp, dark suit
Who sits quietly in the back of the room
Eyeing the glowing, golden stage
Beyond the director
Marking his clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the hopeful woman
Who lives in New York City

This is a world of lives turned cold
This is a man in a crisp, dark suit
Who sits patiently in the back of the room
Eyeing the glowing, golden stage
Behind the director
Tapping his clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the dancer, the woman
Who lives in New York City

This is a girl in pointed pink shoes
Who twirls across a polished floor
For the wealthy man in the crisp, dark suit
Who sits smugly in the back of the room
Glancing up at an empty stage
Near the director
Who holds his clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the anxious woman
Who lives in New York City

These are the looks, and the sighs, and the stares
That fall on the girl in the pointed pink shoes
Who glides cautiously across the floor
This is a man in a crisp, dark suit
Who smiles, unnoticed in the back of the room
Beyond the shine of the golden stage
Above the director
Who writes on his clipboard
That decides the fate
Of the desperate woman
Who lives in New York City

These are the artists who sleep in the park
These are the looks, and the sighs, and the stares
That rain down on a girl in pointed pink shoes
Who dances sadly across the floor
This is a man in a crisp, dark suit
Who silently laughs in the back of the room
Glancing up at his golden stage
With the great director
Who sets down the clipboard
That holds the fate
Of the tired woman
Who lives in New York City

-Ellen Labitzke

On my side of the camera lens

I see the world through a

Tiny box

And I wonder if anything exists

Beyond the crisp edges

And neat corners of my photographs

Maybe there are people there

People whose smiles fade into frowns

After the light flashes

Whose frustration

And joy

And strength

Can not fit in a four by six print size

Whose laughter

Refuses to collect dust in a hat box in your attic

I look at my pictures

And realize that these are the same people

Who skip down the railroad track

Knowing the train won’t come

Each step a snapshot

As they walk gracefully toward the end

I take a step back

And bring my world into

Focus

– Ellen Labitzke

Sitting on an orange plastic bench
Near a lonely foosball table
Players frozen, on the brink of spinning combat
I sip my drink and wonder if those
Fierce little competitors know
It’s just a game

-Ellen Labitzke

The far-off shouts of angry cars
Heard from the world below
Seem childish from this lofty place
Where few can chance to go

Above the city air is still
Time seems to slip away
The hum of what could be and will
Is just a game to play

And when life flings my thoughts around
And throws them at the wall
They find that calm and peaceful air
Above the buildings tall

– Ellen Labitzke

Watching moments run away, I wonder why
They can not linger here with me
Instead, determinedly, they hurry on by

If I could leave for a day, away I’d fly
My soul would pass the tallest tree
Watching moments speed away, I wonder why

I sit here in my seat on the bus and sigh
From this turning life I’m not free
Instead, determinedly, it hurries on by

I don’t think of where the tears go when I cry
Inside I know who I should be
Watching moments fall away, I wonder why

Above the ground yet under an empty sky
Sometimes I don’t try to agree
Instead, determinedly I hurry on by

Rushing to the day when we will die
We forget to fear what we can’t see
Watching moments race away, I wonder why
Instead, determinedly, we hurry on by

– Ellen Labitzke

His music fills the chilly London air
From high above I listen to its charm
The street musician’s voice is strong and clear
It floats and drifts up to the balcony
And lingers for a while by my side
Beyond the door are coats draped over chairs
And coffee cups with swirling wisps of steam
Some pleasant chatter warms the smiling room
That leads the guests into an art museum
Where painted scenes reflect in mirrored eyes
I know that I will soon be there once more
Still notes from nowhere hold me by the rail
I look but I can not quite see his face
This stranger who gave me a peaceful song
For him I make this ink and paper world
Where his guitar can play eternally

– Ellen Labitzke

Some days the sky is like my mind
Heavy with raindrops, thoughts about to fall
From my head into the silence, the clear
Air in the living room lit with shining gray
Light; now hovering pleasantly on insect wings
Before they flutter, passively, to the ground

Still, my heart will not remain on solid ground
It jumps into the sky, winking at my skeptical mind
As it races through stormy air on gleaming feathered wings
Without a glance at the crashing possibility of a fall
And when it tires of swimming through the brilliant gray
Sky, it returns to me, whispering images forceful and clear

The purpose of this stumbling reality is never clear
As we watch the cloudy sky while clinging to the ground
Soaking in the raindrops, consumed by an ocean of gray
A concrete storm to quiet the relentless downpour of the mind
Here on the sidewalk we neglect being afraid to fall
Why do we dream of birds and fail to see our own wings?

A letter in my hand will soon spread its many wings
And take with it my message, however unclear
Each word tilted from scratched ink’s twist and fall
They will travel like a balloon, high above the ground
Before floating down to an anticipating mind
And presenting the gift, a peculiar new shade of gray

The sleepy world looks so peaceful in gray
On days like this there seems no need for wings
Life flows on like a river inside your mind
The destination foggy, though the water runs slow and clear
As rocks from the shore sink below, settling on the ground
Each making a tiny unnoticed splash upon its fall

The springtime air can be as heavy as the fall
Or winter, with its biting breeze and skies of gray
And puddles making mirrors of the broken ground
Though winds of spring awaken folded, rested wings
To a world that is light; its beautiful vastness clear
As the soul begins to turn the dusty pages of the mind

When thunder roars inside the mind, the rain must fall
Whether the result is clear or patchy clouds of gray
Your wings were not meant to lean against the ground

– Ellen Labitzke

In the spaces between stars
They somehow made room for us
And all our tetherball courts
And our sun-soaked chalk drawings
Our sandcastles and their moats
And the Velcro on our shoes

In the places between years
They somehow made room for life
For the small hesitations
And breathless fits of laughter
For the knot in my stomach
And that look in your eyes

In the pauses between dreams
They somehow made room for fear
For a creaking floorboard’s cry
The top of the Ferris wheel
For a painted hourglass
And not knowing if or when

In the valleys between thoughts
They somehow made room for peace
For orange koi in a pond
And shimmering poplar leaves
For a ripple on a lake
And a breeze against my cheek

They didn’t have to make room
For love
It snuck in through the unlatched
Screen door
And found its own cozy spot
In the spaces between stars

– Ellen Labitzke

I will post the poems I receive here as well as in book form. I might also put some of my own poems here, because it’s looking a bit empty right now. Keep checking for updates :).