In this life,

There are finalizing marks.

The last smile of a friendship,

The last kisses of a dog.

The last golden ray of sunshine,

The last few notes of a song.

Not commas or semicolons,

Which promise more to see.

They mark the end of an era

And all the things that couldn’t be.

~B.N.

My physics teacher says there’s a test tomorrow. 

“Review chapter thirteen.”

The kid with the curls is called up to the front. 

Angular momentum. 

My moment of inertia is much too large. 

I’ll retract my arms soon. 

An object spinning tends to keep spinning. 

That must explain my mind. 

Chapters upon chapters; not enough time. 

I’m free — free in four days. 

Initial angular momentum is equal-

Two finals...one quiz left. 

Keep your sanity. It hasn’t moved forget-

stop staring at the clock! 

Momentum not conserved for circular motion. 

But that’s how it goes, right?

You spin in circles…

circles. 

You spin in circles…

circles. 

Then suddenly 

everything slows

down to a

stop.

~B.N.

Gliding

Too close to the sun. 

Heat melts

Our wings start to run.

Swirling

Marmoris surround.

Be swift!

Let us not be drowned. 

Darling why the laughter at a time like this?

Clouds are gonna catch us, be my Icarus.

Stop right there

Wait a minute

Did you really think I’m going without you?

If you fall,

Hang a minute 

I’ll be flying to your rescue, falling too. 

Swaddle us

Save us from this watery grave. 

~B.N.

Further this time, 

there’s a tapestry of common threads nonetheless.

Your eyes hold pools of honey,

the overflow of thoughts from behind. 

The glow of your smile, honey,

Sticks in the crooks of my mind. 

As cool dusk falls to night

Sticks to the rhythm of time. 

So spin me 'round and 'round this dance floor

'Till the blurring of the lights

Seems so much closer to us

Than this dividing line.

If we can’t find the words to speak,

Just slide your hand in mine.

You’ll silence every quiet doubt

relentless on my mind. 

Closer this time,

maybe our hearts will float up to shore. 

Your eyes hold waves so salty,

the overflow of words from your soul.

The power of your mind, dear-

So powerful, clear, and right.

As oceans break the horizon

Tides roll to the rhythm of time.

~B.N.

Curled ’neath the boughs of the juniper tree,

The bright rays dance 

Entangled in an eternal trance.

’Twas the willow waking free, 

Wrought with duty, misty rest.

Sun grows red as robin’s breast.

Amber hues grace bark that weathered be.

The union of truth and belonging made

Doth echo ’round the blazen glade. 

A panoply of virtues doth slumber; can one forsee?

Grow anew! Strong and bold!

Bountiful with gifts of old!

Sticky sweet coffin striped bright with yellow wrapp'd bee.

Let not the fallen fig fruit weep,

Sow juniper, yet purple hope decayed you reap.

~B.N.

I've been conversing with the shadow in my corner.

It takes me walking 'round the gardens by the brook. 

Perusing whispers of the flowers left behind. 

It tells me you are much closer if I look. 

Our hemisphere is tilting ever slower. 

The sun is growing heavy in the sky. 

The shadow holds my hand while earthside.

I'll make my way to you if I try. 

~B.N.

I think her mind functions in poems. 

An intertwined jumble of similes and metaphors,

Of analogies and homesick nostalgia. 

I imagine it somewhat resembles her hair-

wavy and untamed, yet soft and determined. 

I think her mind functions in poems. 

Her hand finds its home 

settled on her hip while

She stares out at the bay. 

A cup of tea in her tender hands, 

I think her mind functions in poems.

Scrawling fast-paced lyrics in a notebook, 

The sheets of which have scattered,

Fell in piles on her bedroom floor. 

She says she’s pretentious enough 

to leave names uncapitalized.

I think her mind functions in poems. 

Beneath the choppy river, rounded pebbles lie in wait. 

Amidst the chaos, treasures rest. 

I imagine it somewhat resembles her eyes-

Piercing and contrary, yet brash and bold. 

~B.N.

History has its ways of imprinting its ghostly events upon the present.

Like spectral figures weaving through monuments of war;

Buildings crumbling to dust, 

choking under tendrils of ivy; 

and hidden pathways, 

which have long been in submission to time. 

Is anything really permanent?

Is anything meant to last?

Is all but a mist hovering over an inky lake of oblivion

holding thousands of shattered dreams and faintly burning stars? 

We thrive in the summer.

We bloom in the spring.

We root in the fall.

We rot in the winter.

Death comes to all- 

in the end, it’s history’s last impression upon our lives. 

~B.N.