North Poets

We’re not all the same It’s just the beginning if you choose This is a celebration This is not a funeral

Father of two, though your first may forgive He will not forget or reconcile You may still see him gazing at the new bridge With a smile of jealousy and glee And maybe, just maybe That is all you’ll ever need

By Jordan Bouma
 My name is Amelia Brown. I’m burning cell phones on the ground. Be a daughter. Flush the water. Watch old food go round and round. 
I’m watching every little tooth rot. 
Waiting for parents in the parking lot. 
Be a honey. Flush the money. I can’t. It’s the only love I’ve got.


By Jordan Bouma
 My name is Paul, and I am okay, and okay is amazing, because I haven’t been okay. 
I’m wearing a grey hat, 
but I don’t feel grey. I’m wearing a blue scarf, 
But I don’t feel blue. I’m wearing a smile, because I’m sitting next to you. ...Well, not in here. But out in the Cafe I am! 
My name is Paul, and I’m washing my hands as fast as I can. 


...hoping Sarah will come back for her. 


By Jordan Bouma I scoffed at what little effort you put in, but I suppose my response is just as little effort. Why do I fight fire with fire when I’m just adding to the flames that are burning this earth? Why put so little effort into putting out this fire?
 God knows I have enough tears to.

The poor boy puts ointment on his knee that's disjointed. He feels disappointed but that's dissipated by the drawings he created that were often hated but for him, they negated how little he was appreciated. His bizarre relation to the man at the station tested the nation. But when he hit him, they all passed by. They all passed by. They all got on their rusty trains and they all just... passed by.

My name is Liz. Here I am. In this dark wilting place where the lights above buzz. Yet I remain blossoming and radiant despite this ground. Puddles. Sewage. I remain beautiful. Perhaps pretentious, but I feel it. I express it. It's here for anyone to read it. It's here for anyone to read it. Yeah… For anyone to read it.

By Jordan Bouma Victor Galway is in the ground. Not dead, but never born. He sits like a seed. He wants to be alive and enjoy even the mundane. He wants to lick his dinner plate clean when the waiter isn't looking. He wants to rub his finger along the texture of a brand new comb. He wants to pretend to know about that musician that girls are obsessed with. He wants to mistake how many steps there are and panic when his foot suddenly drops down. He wants to buy a super hero calendar that he'll love, but never use. He wants to feel what it's like to snap a toothpick. He wants to give his compliments to the chef the way fancy people do in the movies. He wants to forget to wear deodorant and awkwardly ask to borrow some. He wants to write his name in the wet cement of his front walk. That name is Victor Galway.

By Jordan Bouma There are four indents on the inside of the palm of Peter from his finger nails from his fist from his fury from his ferocity from himself.

Summer West's life is hindered by her fear of pain. However, now she regrets the fear more than she regrets the pain.

Jim needs an apple. The doctors are after Jim. Jim gives them the slip!

By Jordan Bouma The tortoise goes home. His rent for the shell is late. He's now evicted.

By Jordan Bouma In the cold winter, I would fancy a warm scarf, if I had a neck.

My name is Dylan. Why are you all doing this? Why write on the walls of the stall of all places? This isn't art. It's a lot of random scribbles from a lot of random people. It's not art but it sure is a gallery.

...on Thursdays.

Be careful way up there. Fall is a season. It's no way to die. Come down. Look at the changing leaves. Let them be the ones to fall tonight. Let them rain on you. Just for you. My lovely.