Cyclone Chronicle's First Poetry Showcase- Fall 2024!

Duck

By: Alexis d'Ambly

Junior, Writing Major

My younger sister’s shark of a goldfish,

He was won at a local carnival and was expected to last six days,

but is still going strong six years later.

I rarely bother with him.

He’s not my fish, after all. 

But today, I sat down on our fraying leather sofa 

to read Jane Wong’s “Meet Me in Atlantic City”.

As I read, I come across an anecdote where 

she mentions a student who puts her pet goldfish in a jar of equal parts water and peanut butter.  

I look up and notice Duck swimming around his tank and wonder if he’s been fed today.

Then, I remember he hasn’t, so I feed him. 

I watch as he gobbles up the food and chases stray bits that float towards the bottom. 

I take a seat on the ottoman and ask if he’d like to swim in a jar of diluted peanut butter. 

“Might be a nice change of pace,” I jokingly add. 

As he swims about in his ten-gallon oasis, 

I wonder if he’s satisfied in this monotonous life of eating and swimming, 

just waiting for half his water to be replaced 

and the algae to be scrubbed from the sides of the tank.

Or, if he, too, dreams of seascapes and white sandy beaches– 

a new chapter in life. 

He’s been here longer than we thought. 

Who knows? Maybe he’s picked up a few things.

Maybe he dreams of a bigger home to explore with another fish friend to keep him company?

Or maybe he hears us talking about college 

and dreams of dorm life, parties, all-night study sessions, and ultimate frisbee on the quad?

You just know some jocks will see him and treat him like another friend.

Make him their unofficial mascot.

Yo, Duck. What’s good, homie? Anyone fed you yet today? What happens if we feed him Doritos?

During Spring Break, maybe they take him to Daytona and show him how to party at the beach?

Use him as a good luck charm during finals?

Then, at graduation, maybe he gets an honorary diploma 

with a little cap and gown,

and a sticker for the side of his tank that reads The World is Your Oyster! 

Centauri B

By: Kayla Diee

Senior Writing and English Major and Paralegal Studies Minor

One August ago, 

I dreamt of a distant sliver of myself,

an astronaut camping amongst the constellations 

in a spaceship fashioned out of cardboard and pillow fort blankets

My mission was to chase other worlds, 

Our better, stronger, stranger selves, 

But my hope had long hollowed, 

my ambition staled to cold ash

and before I could ease my insistent heart, 

I blurted, “I want to go home”

“So come home,” said ground control

“So come home,” said a voice snug in the void

of winking light that was swallowing up my spaceship 

And as these calls clashed, I stared out the cabin window 

at a sugar pink star 

Which, of course, like anything and everything does, 

brought me back to you

The silver moon shadow of you, 

the memories that blot in like seeping stardust

Thundercloud voices with words like dark honey, 

glimpses of trading purple tiger lilies and half-asleep secrets, 

slathering my lips with a raspberry stain

just to paint you crimson

I see it all in the halo

of that sugar pink star, 

feel it real as God, 

Every stubborn, sharp, beautiful fraction of you 

It’s inspiring, it’s cruel, 

the certainty of a far away reception-

an echo that swears, “always, always, always, 

be and be good to me” 

Hence, this spaceship, 

this mission, this dream

Was Eden truly lost? 

or simply tucked behind Saturn, 

or Centauri B, 

or that sugar pink star for safe keeping? 

when I do see you, 

and the conjunction is put to rest, 

I’ll find the time under our sunrise sky

to tell you

How inconvenient it was to be taunted by these hints of you, 

But even then, my own heart will betray me

and I’ll admit, if only to you,

what a comfort the blur was 

After all, 

in the end we are nothing more than love and stardust 

And in the meantime, I’ll keep drifting through space, 

Cataloging comets, 

Seeing you in every corner of the celestial 

Learning every version of me, 

and each copy of you;

The crown, the poet, 

the soldier lacking venom 

Everywhere I turn, the same gentle soul 

I love each one as I love you; 

Completely 

Even in your arms,

I wonder if I was being torn in two while traversing the twilight, 

Or if I was coming into one

The true self in the crux of the cosmos 

Which is everywhere, 

And nowhere at all, 

And perhaps merely stuck in your mind

And mine.

But maybe that driving ache I cannot name, 

for something beyond everything that is familiar, 

This feeling I have for you, cradled in my chest, 

for which the label of love feels too simple, 

Maybe it can make me stand,

Make me strong and fantastically strange, 

Guide me home, 

If home is anything at all.  

Ground control cuts through the static, saying my name: 

once, twice, thrice, 

Asking, “Traveler, are you turning back?”

Rainy Day

By: Osaivbie Igiebor

Rain, Rain go away, come again another day, please let us go outside we no longer wish to hide. You can't keep us in this place, were not comfortable in this space, if you're freeing us pick up the pace, and when you do please don't give chase. What if we never get out of here, must you always keep us so near, you must know this is our biggest fear, and realizing this always makes me tear. The longer I stay the less I love, I wish to be free just like a dove, soaring through the skies high above, but when i'm in here i feel trapped like a glove. Well for now thats all I have to say, I would keep going but I wont get my way, please let us leave we’ll even pay, please rain would you just please go away. 

The Real Me

By: Sabina Smith

Blood cells running through my veins

Flowing, flowing, flowing

BLOCK

3 minutes

My left side was weak

I was born

I was born with cerebral palsy

Can you see past my disability?

Can you see past my disability?

Can you see the real me?

Sometimes I feel people don’t understand

The judge the half of me that they see

They see my limp

They hear my speech 

But they don’t see me

Cap

By: Carlee Nigro

Sophomore Professional Writing Major

As fast as a gas fire blazing through a house 

The bottle cap flew right at me 

My hand wants to catch it 

Save myself

But I couldn't

There was never a chance 

It slashed right into the center of my head 

Blood starts flowing out like a foxtrot performed on the dance floor 

My mom masks the mark 

Like she has done so many times 

My dad says sorry again and again 

Are you really sorry, Dad ? 

Will this accident occur again? 

He claims it won't 

But that was another lie 

I love you 

You know I didn't mean it 

That was utter cap…

Two Lives

By: Sabina Smith

Two homes

Two countries

Two last names

Two different nationalities

Two different cultures

Two different languages

Two different religions

Two different families

Two different Sabinas within one

Two different lives, mashed into one

Just to give her problems down the road

The perfectly created problem

That’s me Sabina

Pure Pleasure

By: Chris Michel

The face of an angel, lit like a candle.

The scene is a dream, two sailboats, king and queen.

Look up to the sky, blue as her eyes.

A smile gleams, sun beams.

Things that are green, grass and jellybeans.

Brown hair, silky and thick.

A peck on the cheek, remains of lipstick.

The air is sweet, it attracts bees.

The heat is uncomfortable, the ground is cool.

A kiss on the lips, hand over hand. A deep breath was released.

Our eyelids arise. She speaks like a melody of birds.

To lay is no fun with regards to the sun, it's too hot.

Her hair is brown. I'm calming down.

Rumble of footsteps, shuffling rocks loud!

Is that a bike? A bike with broken gears? What’s that sound?

Then a pop! My ears jump. My hair stands up.

Clouds sweep. As dark as April is grey. The sun fades.

A storm is brewing. The white flag is raised.

Let’s get out of here and make our escape.

That’s all I can say. Last phrase.

Mama's Little Ankle Biter

By: Alexis d'Ambly

Junior Writing Major

With sharp teeth and a pocket-sized body,

It growls.

Growls like it’s ready for battle.

Sitting on my porch, 

I wonder,

Why does it growl?

Is it because it’s too small to do any real damage?

Because it’s engulfed in rose-colored bows 

and called Princess?

Because her owner carries her around like a wallet in her pocketbook?

Maybe it’s because she wants to be like Sacagawea 

and explore the West,

but is confined to my neighbor’s veranda 

by a baby gate

like a prisoner.

Whatever the reason,

She barks at the mailman,

Snarls at the children playing hopscotch across the street,

Snaps at any passing car,

And hisses at the neighbor watering her begonias.

I attempt to decipher the meaning behind her unholy yips, 

and yet, I get nowhere. 

I tend to think that all that barking 

must hurt her little throat.

Each woof a scalpel to the larynx. 

I begin to question if her owner has anything to do with it. 

So I wait.

Wait for Mrs. Jacobs to leave ten minutes to seven 

For her bi-weekly church bingo.

And, just as I suspected,

Mrs. Jacobs,

At 6:50 on the dot

Shuffles through the front door,

In a pantsuit that probably costs more than my car.

Cooing the words, Good evening, Mama’s Little Princess,

the old woman manhandles the little ankle biter into her Louis Vuitton.

The fluffy, beige Pomeranian head sticking out through the top,

still yapping away towards the street.

The two of them slide into a Mercedes,

And speed off to church,

Granting the neighborhood two hours of peace on this beautiful night.

Kevin

By: Alexis d'Ambly

Junior Writing Major

I used to live in the warmth of Texas,

but now, I’m stuck inside some New Jersey duplex,

taking every opportunity to go out into the world

just to be manhandled by a brute preteen girl.

When I do finally get comfortable at the dining room table, 

a busload of children, running and screaming like banshees,

come into my home and insist on playing with me.

Just let me sleep, I think to myself,

as I'm being hoisted into the air.

Then, I see him.

The one they call Matt. 

I used to live with him and I miss him dearly.

All I want is for him to hold me. 

And, I go flying, gliding through the air like a bird in flight into Matt’s arms.

Okay, I didn’t mean it like that. 

And once I’m comfortable, I’m again a football to a goal post.

Then, a teenage girl, who’s always on her phone,

stands up from the couch,

wraps her arms around my body,

and squeezes me.

She’s whispering in my ear and kissing me.

Gross. 

“My mijo, Kevin,” she coos in my face. 

The absurdity of my nickname, Mijo.

She jokes to her friends that I’m her boyfriend.

I’m from Texas; I know Spanish.

Make up your mind; Am I your son or your boyfriend?

No, Atswei-Marie, I’m your cat!