You & The Laurel

The Laurel flourishes only with contributions of people like you. If you'd like to put you in The Laurel, send an email to laurel@sbu.edu. Don't know what to submit? Try a haiku, a short story, a photograph, a sonnet, flash fiction, a cartoon, free verse, blank verse, a painting, a sketch, or a creative essay.

This page features some of the creative works that have been submitted to The Laurel recently. Enjoy! 

Kindling – Kyle Jerome Zamiara  

Fruit flies dive in an out of a half-cup of beer as if it’s a swimming pool.

They scatter to the next pool as the clumsy hand waivers over the plastic container.

Over on the left side of the court is the ash Tommy left a few nights ago.

He’ll leave another pile in the right corner by the look in his eye tonight.

The green sheet offers an abundance of choices, but the majority goes to the Blue Mountains.

I may add, though, the taste wouldn’t do you any good.

Andy disposed of his shirt some weeks ago, leaving the net responsible for it.

Familiar faces gather round the grimy piece of wood, giving it more abuse as the night drags on.

For some reason, I don’t think it’s complaining. 

Central Park – Tim Crino 

Sinatra's Back in Brookyln – Makeda Loney  

I’ve got the world on a string

Hanging of my leather caressed skin

Floating gently off empty spaces over grass and

My leg becomes its very own porch swing. . .

A pendulum for the weary staring back and forth because

I’m sitting on a rainbow and they can’t really tell how high I actually am because faces really become nothing but empty spaces in an Allegany midnight

I’ve got the string around my finger so I don’t forget where I am

Where I came from

Maybe this string will be replaced by wedding rings expressing unity

You and me. . . illuminated by Boston’s Harvard lights and

Brooklyn’s beautiful flowerty that flowed you to me and

Caused us to dance together like dust particles that do nothing but intermingle with each other and find a place to rest peacefully

before getting swept away because according to the world artists like us mean nothing to society

But honey we. Are. Precious

And nothing will stop us from

Writing or

Cursing the names of people we once loved or

Sitting on rooftops having a beer and kissing the lips of the universe. . . or eachother

And we’ll laugh

And sigh

And say

“What a world, what a life – I’m in love”

Hazy New York Night – Tim Crino 

2. – Karly Gombert  

There once was a tree by a girl by the sea,

But this tree was dead

and this girl was free.

This tree was shade for the girl and for me

As we talked about life, and the law

that killed me.

For the tree that stood, proud and dead by the sea

Was the tree where the law

Had proudly hung me.

Because in the bark of the law’s favorite tree

Was a heart with initials

From this girl and me. 

Crawl Space – George Allan  

From the beginning of time we are brought into this world simple and faulty. We manage to stumble, and eventually waddle from place to place. As a baby we crawl and then after time, begin to reach out and walk. Then after we learn, we forget about some of the places.

We get more concerned with faces.

Expression, actions, deceptions,

Was this safe?

Why is this wrong?

Why does my finger hurt when it gets burned?

We begin to open things and search for more and more room. We may even complain about the size of it, and ask why our sibling's are much bigger and cooler. They have bigger beds, more room for their favorite pop star posters. More shelves and more toys. Toys that they refuse to be anyone but theirs. We learn to share. Sharing everything we own, or think we own. We learn the difference between a bright yellow Big Bird sesame street phone and a real one. As our bones grow, they begin to shape our bodies as we impatiently adjust to our surroundings.

Things change, time passes, we start to think about classes.

Homework, projects, friends, lovers, referrals, write-ups, sports practices, play rehearsals, graduation ceremonies, weddings.

We keep creating new spaces for things in our heads, or our once seemingly little crawl space.

We grow older and our bodies continue to adjust further. Until we feel we can walk, stride for stride with those giants we once considered tall.

And we begin to realize we are small.

Small like your pinky toe, or a mouse, or bread crumbs, or laundry lint.

But then, the steel hits the flint, you can't see anymore and you are forced to squint. You can't see the road signs, or even your kids faces, you can't tell anymore if Julia still has braces. And you begin to crawl into much smaller places.

We don’t remember much. Our world has shrunk, our body is drunk, it needn’t quench for thirst any more. We are in a mindless-perpetual funk. So we pack our things up into a large wooden trunk, and we are told that we can't walk anymore. We need to be helped by others who can run, and they will continue to help us, at first we will think it is fun. But then we see our reach has shortened and we fall like we did way back when we couldn’t quite reach the top shelf, or the cookie jar.

Way back when all we could do was look, observe, and stumble from place to place. Our knees didn't mind the rug burn, we were not yet old enough to learn. But now we see that time has taken its turn and as we sigh and smile, we weep softly. You cough a little and make your peace, you die a little inside, and then you are released.