Celebration of Poetry

Poetry from the students of Pierce College.



A Mid-Summer’s Night

By Kaelyn Anderson

During a mid-summer’s night

When the bats are aflight.

When the grass sways



When the crickets and frogs converse

As if they know something.

When the fireflies glisten all around,

Jumping and communicating with their little lights,

Creating mystery in the air.

When the sky lights up with natural beauty.

When the fire crackles and pops,

Gleaming like a bunch of glow-sticks.

When the gooey marshmallows becomes golden,

And the chocolate disintegrates in the mouth.

When the body becomes toasty

Inside the blankets of warmth.

When the stars dance

In the pitch-black sky.

When the moon is up so high.

When I lay on the tent floor

And say good-night…I sigh

And drift off to sleep.


The Phantom

By Laticia McKivrigan

We’ll solve this conflict in silence

Words turned to stone, our sorrows disguised

Fooled by the phantom of quiet’s triumph


Those who fail to indulge in compliance

Will forever regret the harsh chill of trying lies

We’ll solve this conflict in silence


And refrain from the piercing shrieks and shrills of violence

In a blameless room that neither lives nor dies

Fooled by the phantom of quiet’s triumph


The vibrancy of your smile proves timeless

You bury your weeps; even through our demise

We’ll solve this conflict in silence


With years to come I’ll declare a notion in perfect parlance

A zealous age where passion, shrieks, and shrills prove wise

Fooled by the phantom of quiet’s triumph


I wish away this paradox of Hell’s kindness

And may the bleak shadow of my lips arise

We’ll solve this conflict in silence

Fooled by the phantom of quiet’s triumph


I feel not proud

By Lacey Longpré

I stood stone on her face
in gray, grit, and master
of this pit. Still, filtered
dirt skies hung above me.
I felt for you not; your
pores suffocated with
cold. Brittle bones jailed a
corpse heart. I felt nothing.
I never knew how the
bloody black veins and the
pallid flesh face made you
not beautiful. Nor plain.
Nor did I hear your bland
plea. The “please” or the “wait”
made no soul in me. I
show only words etched in
me. I speak no tone in
them. Eyes may study them.
They may cry into them.
But I change the words not.

Blind, I am neither poetic nor humanely clear.
You entreat, then bury yourself, beneath your own fear.


The Sphere

by Michelle Abbott

Domed in the starry sphere – empty space

drops like wind and lifts winged arms heavenward.


Shrouded, smothered in memory

awaiting rest – silent

heart wells sing like overflowing

ballads sung to no one.


On moors, shadowed and still,

darkened with fires kindled in vanity,

spilling a bowl of ashes mingled with tears,

and drunk up by earth’s dry mouth.


She laughs at my calamity,

embarks to root me down, and hold me.

I will not be held.


Yet trample upon the wasted earth,

bound until her gravity deny,

and uphold the wings of liberty

in the face of the daunting sky.


An Ice Paradise

By Kaelyn Anderson

What an incredible paradise.

Snow covered paths lead the way.

White powdered trees sway in the breeze.

Reflective snow coats the ground from all warmth.

Cold crisp crystals drip water steadily

Into the snow from above,

Leaving a polka dotted arrangement.

A row of clear blue brittle icicles hang like knives

So long and sharp,

Threatening the little life below.

The warmth disintegrates,

Turning into frost.

Animals cower from the cold

Fighting each other for warmth.

Dark windchimes clang,

Fighting with the wind.

Freezing breezes chill the body

To the core upon the smallest touch.

The sounds of the icy breeze flows

Though the frosty forest.

The last snowflake falls and becomes ice.

The thin ice cracks like glass upon the slightest step,

Leaving a path of mutilation.

Silence fills the air.

What an incredible paradise.


And they lived…

By Lacey Longpré

At dawn you are lured and force us to be heroic or to surrender.
Your eyes, dark and dusted, give way to words that, to us, are not sincere.
Hence, your ideas, peeling from your fingers, speak silence.
We yelled at you with our withered voices so that you would end your search
in finding yourself; so that, in our tattered cliques, we would have our own secret.
We would perspire from the heat and burden, yet in our knowledge of it, be serene.

It would be precious if you placed us in the intimate blush of being serene.
You could stop bathing us in grisly scenes of sunset soaked, blood wars and finally surrender;
raise a white flag; a snowy beacon; a grounded mist that showed you were sincere;
sound a blistering siren; anything to break our bricked in silence.
Corrupt the battle by its murder, delight in redeeming us in our search;
so that we may shiver and petrify at the thought of owning a secret.

Ah, what searing bliss, beauty, and triumph would be our secret.
We would be free; marine as mermaids washed and serene,
or be warriors who beam at their opponent’s surrender.
Our gaze bestowed upon a mirror; our bliss and joy truly sincere.
We fall in love and are in the lullaby of its intense, erotic silence.
We could join the sparrows on the perch, who in their melodies, are in a mating search.

We would remain heedful because, for us, other people would try to search
and find what we hide. We would never leak it; the excitement of our cross tied secret.
Relentless in our strife to keep what is dear; that which makes us serene.
We would render our villains, chain them, murder them, they will surrender.
For what we hear, their pleas are mimed for they to us are not sincere.
They are hollow and dense; with poetic doggerel that must be turned to silence.

However, we are hollow and forced to be buried; to sink down in silence.
We are lost as the ship we wish to ride to sea, but we will continue our futile search.
We hold your worries; indebted to them; that pity of a secret.
You will leave us at dusk and go back to living your life; we will never be serene.
Then we will fade in whisper and murmur; to the darkness we must surrender.
Screaming how you molt like a snake; venom spit; deadly as you appear to be sincere.

Raise a white flag; a snowy beacon; a grounded mist that shows you are sincere.
Sound a blistering siren; anything to break our bricked in silence.
Corrupt the battle by its murder, delight in redeeming us in our search
so that we may shiver and petrify at the thought of owning a secret.
It would be precious if you placed us in the intimate blush of being serene.
You could stop bathing us in grisly scenes of sunset soaked blood wars and finally surrender.

It is eerie thinking you are sincere, and we will believe it as our silence
will not be seen. We will hear your search; hold your crest of a secret;
and never sneer when you declare yourself serene.

Lucid Dreaming

By Laticia McKivrigan

I dream, eyes open
of a time where I had time
to do all of the things I shouldn’t do
see all of the things that I knew were never there
and frolic with faceless friends, obscure to the
eye but when the wind blew I could feel them

I dream, eyes open
of a sacred place where
I could be anything, everything
I’ve always wanted; everything I fear
my vulnerability wouldn’t harvest panic
I’d let you love me and I’d need no
petals of a flower to prove your affection

I dream, eyes open
of the fire in your eyes
that drowned in your failures
oh how I wish that they stayed
smoldering, alive forever, resilient
of the needle’s waste that filled your veins

I dream, eyes open
of a love never lost, a final goodbye
unborn, tenacious arms ceased to cross
and no vile words cut deep into my core
leaving my heart cold and listless
unable to move on

I dream, eyes open
of the moment I accept my fate
and rid myself these lucid burdens
dreaming only with sealed, tired eyes


The Tree

By Michelle Abbott

I stood,
suspended in his gaze
like a drop of oil in the water
surrounded by tribal drums and
history – woven into vines.

Climbing to the peak of the bowers
I saw fluid shift
and rocks – silent,
breaking me
soft, like earthen bark.

The green, the green hung around,
like veils shadowing my eyes.

Seeing his face and the trees – the trees flung wide
into gates shaking as tremulous as fluttery things.

And I fell.
Into earthy bits of hard and soft,
into the spaces of animal tracks and faces to face
he who knows me like a seed knows its fruit
inside and out.



By Lacey Longpré

Held in the misted plains
of mazes rich in the deep silk
layers of honey and milk;
dripping down the sides, like ideas,
down my rural temple.
Sprayed with the scented fantasies
of wanting those kisses
to hold the air of my breath. Hiss
of the soothing slumber
dusted the corners of my mind.
I crave this world’s canvas;
to taste poison and not die from
its toxins; to touch the
tips of fire and be quenched; to
lace music cells as mine.
Then to feel real in this love. I
would chase a rainbow. I
would steal the magician’s cards and
play the Queen of Hearts. Your
queen. Red in the straight flush of love.

It bares itself until my pupils see darkness.
Before the glow of my lid veins become heartless.
Into my day world where there is pure nothingness.

My Empty Plate

By Laticia McKivrigan

“Remind me, again why you want to leave this beautiful city?” I asked and gestured to my surroundings.
“Oh please,” Ally said, as she rolled her eyes. “This hardly defines Seattle’s weather. Instead of two days of sun a month, I’ll be soaking it up every day in California.”
“Yeah and you know what else you’ll be soaking up—the smog; inhaling it deep into your lungs. I’ll bet you won’t even be able to breathe there,” I said.
“Well there’s still New York. I have a friend I’ve known for years who’s moving there.”
“New York? That place is extremely dangerous! Do you want to get mugged?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “You should just stay here, for your health and safety of course.”
“Just my health and safety, huh?” she asked.
And there is the fact that I am utterly in love with you. But I wouldn’t say that, I couldn’t, especially not now. Not without hurting her and I wasn’t that selfish. I went over the scenarios that would play out if I told her. Most of them ended with tears, resentment, or guilt, both hers and mine. There was, of course the unusual thought that she would stay, here with me and we would one day get in the car and drive, going nowhere and everywhere at the same time. But that would never happen. I knew that she wanted to leave and never come back as she told me she did, so many times before.
“You would move to New York for one person? It seems like you’re running from something.”
“I’m always running, and he means a lot to me.”
My heart sunk. A lump formed in my throat. Was she in love with him? What was she running away from? I yearned to know the answers, but I never asked. Knowing may have been too painful and I was already walking a fine line between my mask of indifference and the insufferable woe that lay hidden beneath my thin lips. The lump in my throat grew larger. But I had to say something.
“I envy you,” I confessed.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you can just pick up and leave, forgetting the past you left behind.”
“It’s not that easy,” she said. She rustled my hair like I was her younger brother.
I thought she was going to explain, but she didn’t. I stared at my plate; empty like the emptiness I was sure to feel when she was gone. New York, California, it didn’t matter. Her absence was the beginning of my desolate future. I could see it now: I’d sleep on the floor because most nights we would lie side by side speaking our nothings on my bed and other days we’d watch movies on my couch; a small indent on her side remained. I wouldn’t eat because I’d remember the last time I saw her, here at this bistro, and how we ate and I wouldn’t want to relive the stigma of swallowing because it would never taste as good as it did with her and I would try but my throat would clench up, dry and feeble, my lips tightening around my teeth, rejecting my offer of energy, life and—
“Hey,” she said, breaking my stare. “I’m not gone yet.”
My mouth moved slowly and unsure, “You will be.”
She sighed. “Don’t be such a downer; you should be happy for me.”
I laughed to myself, happy, well why didn’t you say so? I dropped my gaze from hers back onto my plate and continued thinking of how much I and this dish had in common.
“I’m glad I met you,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You made this place feel like home. I can’t remember the last time I felt that. Thank you.”
Her words killed me. She sounded sincere. I even heard a slight crack in her voice as she thanked me. I tried to swallow the dryness that overwhelmed my mouth, but I couldn’t. I held in my urge to scream, to sob and let her know how I really felt. How she made this place feel like home and I’ve lived here my whole life. But I wouldn’t, I wasn’t that selfish.
“Anytime,” I said. I smiled.
“Maybe I’ll come back someday. I do love the scenery here,” she said.
And I hoped she would. She could fall in love with me and I could leave her with only a dent in her couch and longing memories to dull her future, and when I’d  say goodbye she wouldn’t tell me how she feels because her selfless love wouldn’t want to kill my dreams, my adventure. She would feel what I felt, and so many others. I could show her the sweet sorrow of a selfless love.
“Maybe,” I said, softly.
I studied her face and rose from my chair. I closed my eyes and walked along the sidewalk. I knew that this was the last time I would ever see her. I let the breeze guide me, hoping it would freeze the image of her face in my mind. The image that had to last me a lifetime.


By Laticia McKivrigan

I still wince when my grandmother curses,
but not like I used to. I remember the first time
I followed in her footsteps, when the harsh sounds
escaped my mouth; she told me I’d never dare do it again.
The second involved a switch meeting my ass.

But I’ve learned since then. Since the dark shadows
in the halls of my grandmother’s house haunted me and when I would scream, no one would come.
Maybe it was a dream.  Maybe there were no shadows at all.

But I’ve learned since then. Since my hopes for a father grew slim and I played catch by myself, with no glove and no ball; just my bare hand and a smooth rock snug in my palm.

Since my mother’s trips grew from days to weeks and
finally she didn’t come home and I fixed my own breakfast and laced my own shoes. She called me only to ask if I heard from my father. I never did.

But I’ve learned since then. Since the cracks in my
ceiling widened, letting the heat escape my room,
inviting rain onto my blanket. And there was no
one there to fix it, to keep me dry.

Since I outgrew my clothes and shoes, and
was forced by the slanders of kids with paved ceilings
and dry blankets to steal.

But I’ve learned since then, since the hand
that fed me left and my stomach burned for girth.
Since my cryptic family raised me, raised me to raise myself.

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Celebration of Poetry

by Contributing Writer time to read: 11 min