June Poetry Slam

messy thoughts


Wondering whilst wandering—what to do? The park is swarming, but through the rambunctious kids and swirling skateboarders you spot a solo seat on a bench across the way.

Sitting now, you close your eyes and breathe deeply, appreciating the sun’s warmth and relishing in the fiery constellations dotting your eyelids. Daydreaming, you begin to drift off when you feel a triple tap on your shoulder. Looking up, the girl who was sitting next to you is now standing and appears to be heading out.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I host a fun open mic event every Friday and I’m headed there now. You should check it out!” With a warm smile, she hands you a scrap of paper with the address.

Gratefully surprised, you thank her and say, “I’d love to, I’ll see you there.”

It’s the Messy Poetry Slam.


By Kepi Grey

Let’s be gypsies

and never find our place

but in a caravan

of laced fingers

and warm arms.


By Skye Sinyard

exquisite pastel nails with

scrunchie on wrist

turning pages of peace

ms. woolf sacrificing comfort for justice

ms. hooks igniting a fire in my belly

ms. angelou setting limitless boundaries

the honeyed balance of style and wit

a fusion of female

my femininity

girl from the conservative underbelly of the nation

seeking solace in rented films and used paperbacks

lively dialogue with women who laid the groundwork before me

ms. angelou’s anthem dances off of my tongue-

still i rise. still i rise. still i rise.

my femininity

thick thighs that root me

dusty blonde hair as defiant as my intransigent tongue

overzealous libido and appetite for intimacy

giggles peeking through gapped teeth from an outlandish sense of humor

my femininity

combating the obstacle that is bipolar disorder with a pink fist

even when the suffering is too much to carry

princess leia’s words of resistance aiding in clearing a foggy soul

never ceasing to fight that fight

my femininity

contains no guidelines

no how-to’s

it is messy, passionate, dark, sexy, complicated and smart

it’s clay in my hands

and i have the power to mold it how i like

making a few glorious mistakes on the way

smoothing it out

pounding it flat in an instant and recommencing the next

because it is my flowering womanhood

and it is remarkable


By Sylvia

my baby is orange

i listen, we dream

of burnt skies

and sierra leone

on his back

he carries my mind

he sings of worlds

and of girls

he tells me, ‘let it be’

with orange skies

the truth not hides

talk sweetly

guide me to sleep

peel me open with soft hands

caress my soul

be gentle


don’t let the citrus sting my wounds

orange is bold

orange is gold

it’s the colour of you and me


By Libby Smith

Too often

we do not say what is

knotting around our ribs

the words aching to hug another.

That drink will not untie

the tangles inside your chest

or the ribbons along your tongue.

You must let your self go—gently.

Break the glass

my Love

let yourself be cracked

and see that everyone else is too.

Come lie down

on the grass

The moon will keep us warm

The hills will soothe our aching hips

And the earth

and the tears

will be filled

to the brim.


By Stephanie White
We’re told to move aside,
Only place we should reside,
In our heads,
Or a manly mans bed,
Breasts are tits-
Are for fucking,
Clits are for sucking,
But our minds;
Are for nothing.

Something is brewing,
The world keeps on moving,
Why won’t you stop to notice?
Real stories, real women
None of us chose this.

A voice for the sisters,
Swallowed by the system;
The artists, the mothers,
The sisters who long to be brothers.
We love ourselves more than before,
Though are knees stay stuck to the floor,
Because mouths are for sucking,
And women are for fucking.



by Brooklyn Walker

perfection under my nails,

i’ve been scratching at the surface

you’re my devil in the details

with shining eyes, so horribly earnest.

i paint myself as icarus

but how close is too close?

begging for deliverance

in the sun’s shadows.

you blame arrogance,

claim i’m predisposed-

i know how high i could go.

you’re drained at my feet,

a stop-sign to splash in

couldn’t be less discreet

i feel more than my skin.

at least the sun’s sincere

as it tears my wings apart.


By Caramia Jones

You give dying the best connotation

I could be alone the rest of my life

After this with ease

I can give no denotation

For sitting next to you

Before I worried about diction

But now I know what definition makes me linger

Holding your clammy hands

Feels like an ekphrasis

Your pearly touch is art

You touching my knees

Feels so colloquial

But even in casualty

Sparks rush into my morals

Under unbecoming jeans

Your rhetoric comes in touch

Touching questions like:

Is this love?

Is this right?

This is the right audience honey

Let your honey drip down my lap

And I won’t need to live again

This foreign language feels so sweet

Like a native tongue


By Hannah Sullivan

She idled away the autumn days

dreaming and sleeping off reality

nagging in the back of her mind

like a sore that never healed

She gazed outside

Through her open window

was a world much greater than she

greater than her narrow view

confined by plastic mountains

as far as the eye could see

* * *

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  1. these are all so thought provoking. I would love to see people do art pieces for each poem and how they interpreted it.

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