MT. IDA AND ODEN SCHOOLS
MT. IDA AND ODEN, AR
FACULTY CONTACTS: MARTHA CATHEY, JOYCE MAY AND MARY MONK
VISITING WRITERS: DAVID KOEN AND GARY ENNS

 

A Leper’s Life
You might dislike lepers,
You might discard them.
You might like a river,
You might like children.
What about them.
What . . . about . . . them.
They were once children.
They are now only skeletons.
They might have won beauty pageants,
They might have been perfect crystal
Gleaming in the sun, like diamonds on
A queen’s crown.
Now their light is gone, burned or smashed
Out of existence. They are now
Stones on the bottom of the ocean.
They are really truly gone.

Justin Moore

 
David Koresh Reborn
No one way out,
No innocent girls flocking,
No Waco, No fire, No guns,
Only burgers,
Only "May I take your order please?"
Followed by the expectant "Would you like fries with that?"
Big Mac and Quarter Pounder his only friends.
Not so different than before.
Fire is contained,
Anger is not.

Josh Perry

Mt. Ida
by: Beer Can
I am behind the Exxon,
left here, half empty
by the public intoxicant
who paraded me around,
around the dry town,
through the woods and the stores
which make up this place.
I stumbled
near Bob’s Food City
and on to the Dairyette,
staggered to the Wooden Nickel.
Thrown across the road when lights came,
the blue, the red, and back again.
He is gone.
I am left
half empty.

Josh Perry
 

Snake Parade
At midnight the snakes have a parade.
Green snakes, yellow snakes, gray snakes, and brown snakes,
they all slither down the road. Some
carry flags and some hiss "Bad to the Bone," all the slimy snakes
shimmer in the light of the moon. They slither
through the woods, down the road
and into Hot Springs. They slither into Harvest Foods and eat
all the Reeses peanut butter, they play on the displays
and sneak a couple of Millers. They slip into a
Wal-Mart and play with all the toys, the big
one too tired because it ate a boy.
It’s four o’clock now. Store owners will
be coming soon, so they slither back to
their holes.

Wesley Jolie
 

Tweety
Tweety Bird is gone.
She sleeps in a garbage
can.
She eats fish scraps
instead of bird
feed.
Her feathers are dirty
and scraggly.
Some are plucked
out.
She is alone on
a street side.
Cats lurch
toward her.
She has no
hope.

Amy Henry

Crossing Mount Ida by Red Truck
The echoing sound of a basketball as it bounces off the concrete.
John Bailey putting around in his old Dodge, shooting
me with his fingers.
The smell of raw sewage
as I drive by my friend’s house.
The small craters in the road, jarring my red truck.
This is the endless boredom of Mount Ida.
The frail old man with the round billed
hat lounges around in his yard,
counting the passing cars.

Josh Carr