March Poetry Compilation
The Sunstroke Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of poetry submitted by Sunstroke readers and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea, and dive into the intricate words of our community.
Submit to future compilations here!
Photography by Alberto Aala, modeled by @natelle.nakhnikian
Be it so
by Christopher Mardiroussian
Be it so.
The piano.
The keys.
The catalyst hands
carved from oak
stenciled in stone:
Principesa.
Be it so.
Without a cover,
uninsulated air dust
diving one-by-one
fields of fallen follicles.
Be it so.
Metallic veins rusted from
dehydrated vibrations
swing at a fingertip
strokes that stem
serenading sounds
of phantasmagoria
line-dancing.
Be it so.
The voices.
The whispers.
The humming.
An aptitude for attitudes.
A sway of the cranium
in the form of an
upside down protractor
subtle, yet generates inertia.
Be it so.
Skim a transcribed note sheet.
A meticulous, methodical, memorization
of sanitizing notes
hanging from line segments
portraying shuffled majors
or shallow minors
glass-cracked tropes.
Be it so.
Illiterate eyes.
Black–ink–blind.
Plain white paper.
Rhythm–mixed–rhyme
make for harmonious
elephant waltz
perhaps, any permutation of
magisterial mahogany.
Be it so.
Frolic with the right.
Scamper with the left.
The in-between
each essential, to the fracturing
of the piano–cuento–prose.
Be it so.
Principesa.
Amore.
Once a year,
taken out of
the shadows
from the attic.
“Let it breathe,” you say.
“Set it free.”
Those chapped,
desert lips
once told me
it takes two
or three
never less
to tickle a key.
I wonder what Midsummer might bring?
by Alexander Payne
Feel the wholeness of being
Where skin resonates with the heat around,
As atmosphere and self are dancing
To a sight worth seeing
And my skin on air and air on viewer are together bound.
As if a tuning fork had been played to perfect pitch
Where each vibration of a swaying actor in the heat,
Rings of steps and looks that switch
From looks to feeling whole from eye to brow and brow to feet.
There as if in a play where the lines of players mark ways between,
Each layer of surface tension of the scene,
So that every tone and every emphasis provides
Not just dialogues, but homes where all in heart of mind resides.
And there outward vibration enumerates
An echoing chorus of a body so in tune,
As each wave of the moving calculates,
The number of seconds where I had forgotten myself all too soon.
If I stare
by Kaya Callahan
If I stare down at the aisle and I look to my side I see no one
An extra seat at graduation
Out of strangers there's an empty space still recognized
If I stare long enough I feel like I can make out his face
Somewhere in the crowd is a beaming father
Looking at their child
I miss that feeling of knowing that I was being started at with full love
Now all I do is stare at the sky hoping to feel his warm face
Somewhere from some universe, dimension or heaven
It gives me hope that one day I will be able to look at him once again with full open eyes and not have to stare at the photos and memories we once shared
That will be the day.
When I feel whole again
1:43 AM
by Brooke Hannel
It’s 1:43 a.m.
I am wondering if you’ll ever call. I’d settle for a silly meme, or even a set of ellipses and nothing else. A naked message with no substance. A message with zero calories, I’d swallow that.
And the constant, lurking thought spills into my mind, “should I even care?” My insecurities and anxieties team up to form the words, “you’re so clueless,” “dumb,” “sad,” “stupid.” My mind’s favorite words.
It seems I can’t get you out of my head, like a piece of bread stuck at the bottom of the toaster. Yes, I compared you to a piece of bread, but you left me on read, it’s only fair.
Perhaps I am selfish and narcissistic, and maybe I am, but I want you for myself. I have no idea if you’re happy, but I don’t want you to be because it would be unfair if you are happy without me, because I am unhappy without you. You’d probably call me horrible for even thinking that way, but I can’t afford your therapy consultation.
But, I’d settle for a bouquet.
//
bad timing
by Katie Lotz
i have bad timing
i’m driving five over
just to arrive five minutes late
and most of the bands on this playlist
broke up years before i decided
to listen to them
and most of the stars i can see
burnt out eons ago
and trying to find my way to her
is like feeling my way across
a dark room
hands outstretched
my shuffling feet catching on
table legs and piles of clothes
but it’s ok
because i’m used to saying
thank you for waiting for me
i’m sorry
because the music sounds just as sweet
with no band around to play it
because the stars reach me just as brightly
as if they aren’t already fading memories
because her skin and her voice
are just as soft
even if it feels too early
i know i’m usually too late