Emily Bernstein is a young, aspiring poet who is a rising sophomore at Chapman University, where she is getting a BFA in Creative Writing and a minor in Business. She has been published in Ampersand Literary, and can't wait to see where the stars take her next.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Happy Friday, dears! Feel free to send me love poems at any time! Here's how: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2015/07/call-for-submissions-friday-love-poems.html
This week I welcome a new friend, a girl who gets as emo about gadgets as I do:
Ode to my 2007 MacBook
By Emily Bernstein
Processor like an ’88 Ford, what have you not taught me
– when the Hepburns were born, how to cut a
mango, where to call for help? O the months you’ve seen
with me – the rebellious ones, the months of the rabbit,
the first heartbreak, and the multiple obsessions of public figures –
stories, and all my first lines shared, the final ones, too,
like bottled blondes who are making it big now but will
just be girls of failure parents in five years.
Miley Cyrus was innocent when you were still actually
white and I first carried you home from school like a
new baby from the hospital. Remember the months we
sang along to Broadway musicals top notch?
Those were simpler times. Sometimes, all I thought about
was lugging you up the hill and watching the sunset and
not going home. Would you make it through a thunderstorm?
What would life be like if I actually liked lightning? I had
forgotten what home meant. Thank God, I remembered.
That saved us both. We were young together. It’s different now.
You’ve seen poetry with me – the good and the bad, you’ve
end of with streams of movies and music.
I would have missed so many summers without you –
the beaches, books full of love and murder, naps covered in
green blankets, and rainforests full of adventure –
through the window I’ve seen day in, day out. How many pages
of novels have I thrown into the garbage from you?
How did the memory of Grandma get into your background?
Why do I have to grow up, and why are we slowly dying,
with you going faster, your lights getting dimmer night by night?
With you, we could go anywhere. I’ll pull the reins,
you can blast the theme song, we can streak along the stony atmosphere,
the dreams of some toddler in too small pajamas,
who knows exactly what is for breakfast tomorrow.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Gold star to another member of my poetry class! Don't forget, I'm always taking submissions for Friday Love Poems, any and all forms of love are welcome.
Love Poem to my Ollie
by Zipora Schulz, July 9, 2015
I knew I was in love
the minute I saw him cross that busy street in Brooklyn.
Unafraid, waddling, a shining aura around his little round body.
The cars shot around him, both ways. No one stopped.
He crossed over and beelined it to me, miraculously unscathed.
He stood on his back legs and
gave me a “High Five”.
I looked around, thinking there was some sort of mistake.
What was I to do?
He was young, he was soft, he was yellow-tan
His ears flopped as he moved his head
He licked every finger on my hands.
What was I to do?
You know what they say: (was it Goethe?)
that when the purpose is clear (I’m paraphrasing)
all the doors will open?
The purpose became clear that, although I didn’t need another dog,
I had been chosen by this one.
Folks came out of the woodwork to help.
One person brought some string to tie around his neck.
One person brought a cup of water for him to lap up.
One person hugged me because they said he had been tied up and left outside
in all kinds of weather by the garage down the street
sometimes without water for the last few months.
They asked if I was going to return him (my little escapee).
Why would I return him to that, I said. I was already in love.
I looked and saw he had long outgrown his metal-linked collar.
It dug into his soft neck like a vice. No one thought to upgrade him as he grew.
I called him Ollie, after Oliver Twist:
the orphan who makes good by simply asking for “More”.
By escaping his fate and finding me on a busy street, Ollie asked me for more.
I gave that to him for fifteen years with complete devotion and heart.
And he returned the favor.
My soul-mate dog-friend, my furry son.
I can still feel the outline of his perfect ears and the texture of his snubby nose,
although he passed six years ago.
Love? Yes, the truest of loves, my friend.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Open Letter From Eros to Dr. Helen Fisher
I thanked you.
I thanked you, because I thought you had set me free from
The broken hearts that are still un-mended
The abusive relationships that are never ended
The unrequited lovers that have always pretended to be nothing more than friends.
I was so tired, so I gave you the power and said,
“Show them love exists.”
But you resist, hiding behind computer screens
Trying to glean which chemical shoots up which neuron.
Doctor, you have misdiagnosed every single patient as an addict
To the endorphins you say are morphing their brains
To copulate to populate the world.
And I ask you. How did this happen?
They used to love.
They used to be addicted to nothing but the beating of their lover’s heart
Pumping love from one chest to rest of the other’s body,
Because they were human beings, and I was around long enough to know
That that’s what they were designed to do.
Poets would fall in love ten thousand times before noon
Lovers remarked that the sun’s light at night made love to the moon.
And I ask you. How did this happen?
Making them addicted to your anthropological theories
Infatuated with your biological technology
In love with the drive to your office.
All this for what?
But the madness of the gods is not something
You can shove in a drawer and move onto more
So I ask you. How did this happen?
How can you sing the praises of science
When it is your self-reliance that has taken the mystery of love out of our history books;
Muffled the flutter of hearts who see without eyes their lover’s face
Or taste without lips the salt the slips into the dimples of their hips.
But you don’t see any of this. Do you, doctor?
Love is not enough, though, is it?
You want to prove that I don’t exist as well,
Well, before you finish the job
I use my dying power to curse you:
You will never experience love again.
Find a substitute.
I dare you.
You can read all the Inuit poetry you wish,
But you will still miss that surge passion while you witness
Every single person finding love
While your conclusions will only find that human beings are complicated—
More complicated for you to measure with the physical volume of their hearts
And until you accept this treasure as truth to ideal
You will never begin to understand love
Or calculate what lovers can feel.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Here are some samples of past poems accepted, enjoy!
Wonder Dave: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2011/08/friday-love-poems-wonder-dave.html
Rachel McKibbens: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2011/03/friday-love-poem-rachel-mckibbens.html
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz: http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/2011/01/friday-love-poem-cristin-okeefe.html