the ghost of thanksgivings past by Sarah D.
long winding roads through the trees
up to the little blue house on the hill,
crunching gravel steps up to the porch,
always so much warmer once inside.

smells of turkey,
stuffing and mashed potatoes,
uncle mark making a salad in the kitchen,
the wood stove making us sweat.

james taylor’s voice drifting out of the speakers,
we all sing along cause we all know the words,
aunt diane’s house always smells like tea
herbs, and food,
it always felt like home.

we bring out the good china,
the kids set the table,
sparkling apple juice in wine glasses,
candles lit,
a warm glow
and everything sparkles.

brothers tease, and cousins laugh,
nana and gramps sit together,
love for over 60 years now
with dogs and cats at their feet.

uncle rick makes a toast,
we say what we are thankful for,
someone makes a joke
cause that’s what we do,
but the words of love and thanks
are taken to heart.

and just like every other family,
we eat until we are stuffed,
telling stories,
laughing till our bellies hurt,
smiling till our cheeks were sore,
in the warm light
as darkness falls around us
on the mountain.

it is these days i miss.

Disappointment by Sarah D.
(quote is from Garden State)
“Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place.”

“Even so, I still wanted to go home for Christmas. Everyone is so far away. I am going to feel so alone.”

“You’ll have friends to hang out with though. You won’t be entirely alone.”

“But it’s not the same. Some people hate their families, or feel eh about them. But mine is so amazing. They’re all such interesting creative people. They’re crazy and weird and that’s why I love them.”

“You’re lucky to have that. Many people don’t.”

“I know. That’s why I’m so upset. We can’t afford to fly me home…there’s just no way. And I hate that we are so poor, and everyone else I know gets to go spend the holidays with their families. I’m jealous. I hate feeling that way.”

“I wish there was something I could do.”

“That’s sweet. There’s nothing anyone can do really, unless they have a spare 800 bucks. I’m afraid…my Gramps….he has Alzheimers. He’s 87. I don’t know how many more Christmases he is going to be around for. And I’ve only missed one so far in my entire life. I didn’t want to ever miss one again. Life is so short.”

“Indeed it is. But all you can do is be thankful for every second you have. Every minute, every holiday, every phone call from home, every birthday card, every hug. You may be broke but you have love.”

Waihe’e by Chris C.

The air turns green in the bamboo grove where the wind and water swap sounds. Lau ti wrapped rocks are traded for safe passage. Safe passage through over the rocks and through the wet jungle tucked up against the jagged fingers of mossy rocks. Slippers slick with pungent old leaves, cold water, mud and debris make the walk longer and the cliff-side trails seem so much steeper. Two swinging bridges, hooked to old stone bases by steel wires, seem like they’ve been built by sheer will to get to the other side of deep jagged rock river beds. Out here, our legs aren’t stick thin and floppy awkward, and our bodies are the same stuff as clinging trees. We laugh and complain, feel fear in the darker parts of the jungle and take turns carrying each other across knee-deep puddles. Up in Waihe’e is a cold-water pool under the concrete irrigation dam. Away from dull classes or workaday boredom, we take turns leaping from the platforms and swinging from the slick, frayed rope; we swim behind the waterfall and through it, the air turned to lightning and the myna birds laughing in the guava, like always.

Here is what we received in return.

My Age by Sarah D.
My mother has always looked younger than she was, even now as she closes in on 60. People used to think my brother and I were her siblings instead of her children. I don’t know what kind of magical genes she has, but I have inherited them. I have always had a baby face, and a tiny voice. Being the new girl in Portland, no one knew how old I really was. When people talk to me, they guess 23. When I tell them 28, I always get a look of surprise and disbelief. I don’t feel 28, but I don’t feel 23 either. Some days I imagine I am still 19, although I know I have changed so much since then. If I had no concept of age, or any knowledge of how old I was, I would still imagine myself being in my 20′s. Older than my teenage self, but not quite a grown up. Somewhere in between having no idea who you are, and knowing exactly that.

33 to 17 by John I.
If I didn’t know I am 33

I would still be 17 wearing

beat-up high-tops with sharpie-colored soles.

I would still have hair on my head,

but it would be hidden under a cut-off

sweatpant leg that I pull over my eyes

right before

my teacher throws a chalk-rag

at my head.

It’s the same now as it ever was;

deficits of attention translated into financial debts

as I age.  Doodles in the margins of homework pages

Become entire notebooks.  My entire life,

inside a notebook, spiral-bound, perfect-bound,

sharpie-colored, reckless daydream.

Chris C. from Portland State
Title: Since I stayed home today, this has never been written.
I stayed home this morning and the rubble is still visible. There’s no collection of bits and bytes to mark my passing or invite anyone to the show. Thirteen people don’t know that all it takes is a single leap of the heart. I’m still a stranger to the people down the hall. This morning, when I shut off my alarm, invisible shockwaves rippled through the city and nothing I’d have set out to do was done, although there was still traffic in the streets and people went to their classes or met friends for lunch. Out there, somewhere, there’s just enough disappointment caused when I rolled over and pulled the blankets over my head thinking, it is too cold and too wet to crawl out of this, to make the day grayer. This morning, the bus was still packed, but one person had just a little more room. Maybe two. No apology was necessary when my backpack didn’t scrape against a man listening to music, and he was free to continue thinking about what kind of movie the music would be in. When I didn’t leave the house, my part—the one that cannot be seen from space—was lost. Forever. I made no new friends, or enemies, didn’t give the man with one arm a dollar for a newspaper, never said anything about the book I read and generally didn’t make much of a difference, where I otherwise would.

Writing Prompt: Describe your biggest pet peeve, and when you do it, do it in haiku poem form.

by Carmen B.
Maltese is his breed.
Falcon is his doggie name.
THE MALTESE FALCON

by Colin M.
Sun floods in my room
Way to early to wake up
I should get curtains.

By Terry G.
Dressing up your dog
In little funny outfits
Means you must be bored.

Writing Prompt: Think of the oldest people you know. Choose one and describe him or her. Include details about how this person speaks and moves. Imagine what this person was like when he/she was young; describe.

By Kelley B.
Moses, the oldest person I know, lives in the apartment across the hall from me. He seems as old as the building himself, but is really only about ninety. He walks with out bending his knees, and though his shoulders are squared, he looks just as hunched over sitting down as standing up. His tiny frame looks even smaller because of his huge shoes and gray wool cap. When he isn’t wearing that cap, I can see his hair, which looks like handfuls of cobwebs. He still smokes cigarettes, as I imagine he’s been doing for over seventy years, and is often seen sitting on the front porch, reading our mail.

The Rain by mb142003
The rain,
It envelops the land
It descends upon light and dark
Fosters growth and decay
Life or death
The rain,
It cleanses the sidewalks
Swirling the oil-slicks and chemicals down the drain
The rain,
Pushing a torrent through underground pipes,
Like so many roller coasters
Diluting the excrement and Drain-o
The rain,
Coming to the thrill ride’s ending
Released from the tunnels, a torrent of grime
The rain,
Cascading, splashing, tainting the Pacific
Warping, changing, morphing the biosphere
The rain,
Doing the job we left behind
The rain,
Our protector, our savior
The rain.

The Bottomless Abyss by mb142003
Twilight stillness
Translucent, luminescent fish
Bloated, 3 month-old corpse of an Orca
Bubbles of air, rising to explode on the surface
Monstrous, gliding Kraken
All this depends on
The plankton, base of all marine life
The plankton, who will be gone in 40 years

Untitled by Jonathan H.
The thunder head loomed on the horizon,
waves lapped at the shore,
the gulls flew above the sea,
the boat rocked upon the waves,
 
the waves struck at the shore,
nets swelled with fish,
the boat tossed by the waves,
fronds blew in the wind,
 
the nets burst with fish,
the storm battered the rocks,
the fronds crushed by the wind,
dolphins flew towards the sky,
 
the storm thrashed at the rocks,
whales launched geysers at the sky,
the dolphins absorbed by the sea,
shells coughed upon the shore,
 
whales sank into the depths,
the sand stolen by the waves,
the shells thrown onto the beach,
the thunder head controlled the horizon.

Untitled by Mary R.
The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida. She didn’t want to go to New Jersey, either. Nothing but California would do. She sang about oranges. She watched the Oscars. She read Lawrence Ferlinghetti in the bathtub, bellowing when the book hit the bubbles. When she slept she dreamed she was flying a small plane along Highway One, looking first at the Pacific, next at brown hills. She didn’t know where to look. The plane crashed into a billboard and burst into flames. Instead of the HOLLYWOOD sign there was HEAVEN.

Donuts by Colin M.
It was about 10 at night when I saw her walk out the door. At 9 in the morning she returned with a pink box. In contained a dozen donuts. When I pointed out to her that there were more than a dozen donuts inside, she told me that fourteen was the new twelve according to bakers. As I was reaching for the donut with frosting that matched the box, she stopped me.
“Don’t,” she said. “You don’t know what flavor that is. It could be cherry or strawberry.” The pink donut was always a mystery. Nobody ever knew what flavor it was intended to be.