By Josilyn Straka | Assistant Editor
It was you, bright eyes, big smile
You reeled me in, won me over
I was elated, hopeful
And then, in the blink of an eye
It was over, no explanation
Sacramento will never be the same to me.
Posts published in “Arts & Entertainment”
By Maddie Willigar | Editor-in-Chief
My breath morphs into saturated air
like clouds of dew that pour straight from my lungs
and flakes of white fall like a morning prayer
that softly drips off tips of human tongues.
The neighbor kids whip their packed balls of snow
at layered armor: puffer coats of plush.
Each child falls like leaning dominoes
until the numbing chill makes their cheeks flushed.
I hear their parents call from cozy homes
the warming sound melts through my train of thought.
There’s something in the comfort of their tones
By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
Very soon, thankful Thanksgiving treasure trove will be;
Tables heavily laden, tasty gravy, giblets, gourds galore!
A happy time, family, friends, feasting folks you’ve been waiting to see;
Good will abounds; sounds of music, merriment, multitudes more.
Being thankful today, for everything, everyone, earth’s essence;
Gratitude abounds at table, plates, platters, pumpkins, prayers.
Even strangers meet; wanderers, wayfaring, weary welcomed presence.
Food enough for all; sharing, succulent, sustaining, substances in layers.
Theater at the Mount‘s October 16 Performance Sells Tickets and Laughs
By Elysian Alder | Observer Contributor
On Sunday, October 16— the day of the Theater at the Mount’s final production of The Play That Goes Wrong,pulling up the website to purchase tickets for the show revealed a pleasantly surprising fact: tickets were selling, and they were selling fast.
Within ten minutes, the total number of tickets remaining went from 87 to 62, and that didn’t even account for the tickets that would doubtlessly be purchased on-site at the box office. To put those numbers into perspective, the website for Theater at the Mount stated that the theater can seat a whopping total of “515 people in 15 unobstructed rows.”
By Maddie Willigar | Editor-in-Chief
Her spirit still dances
on the piano keys, like an
unfinished composition of
words only uttered under the
solitude of twilight’s breath.
She whispers stories in the
ears of a once sane
man, a reprise that leaves
notes of the woman
he remembered –
until her figure looks a lot like
dust in moonlight, and her
dress looks a lot like curtains
By Isabelle Mascary | Assistant Editor
What was once
yours, is now
mine.
He said while
kissing his
cold lips.
Welcome to
my world!
You can watch,
you can’t run!
You can’t move,
you can’t scream,
you can’t cry
you can’t fight, but
watch what I do to your body tonight.
Wonderful
masculine frame,
every part,
still intact.
Not a bruise in sight,
such a wonderful delight.
Possible aneurysms! Can’t
wait to cut open your skull
and examine your lovely brain.
Much excitement and arousal
simultaneously. You’re my
By William A. Lefrancois | Observer Contributor
In a dark, dreary, deserted, desolate field
a pale, petrified pumpkin patch lies full of yield.
Many are round, robust, rigorous, righteous globes of orange;
One alone sullen, sad, sorrowful, sorry unfit for the grange.
On a nearby hill, high, hideous, hints of mortality
a graveyard yawns, yearns, yellowing, yesterday’s totality.
Underground buried, bruised, banished bones await;
Halloween night arrives, awesome, angry angst of fate.
Bones in multitudinous, murky, mire mix of shape;
By Rachel Geer | Observer Contributor
The pebble frog, small, round, grey
curls itself into a ball, looking,
for all the world, like
a pebble before casting itself
down the steeps of its mountain home.
It gives gravity, and vector dynamics,
control. A little
Anti-Sisyphus, the frog’s
goal is to reach the bottom with
as little fuss as possible.
It bounces off
even sharp surfaces without injury.
When the ground levels off enough (friction
overcoming momentum),
it uncurls, unharmed,
OK with its new surroundings.
By Josilyn Straka | Assistant Editor
I hear the rain tapping monotonously on the
metal roof just outside my window, I
lay there trying not to hear the excruciating
thoughts of my unexpected departure
The way I interpret the gray colored
sky is unsoundly disparate, agonizing in pain
like anguish with no sympathy,
Thoughts of my unexpected departure
The empty feeling that is felt, sadness
wrapped around me like a blanket
heartache halo’s my hollow heart,
Thoughts of my unexpected departure
Thankfully, that was a lifetime ago, I
By Maddie Willigar | Editor-in-Chief
After Aron Wiesenfeld’s “Study for Night Reading”
These windows are a frame
to the rain that paints our city like
Van Goh: dressed in monochromatic
blues and flickering skyscrapers that
bleed and swirl on a concrete canvas.
I wonder how many nights I’ve
spent watching it streak down
my windows, water staining glass
the same way I let tears fall
down and sting my cheeks.
Or how many nights I’ve spent
sitting in the shadows, staring at
an open book of letters you wrote,