Sound Bites, Issue 6: Ashlyn Whalen (she/her)

Sound Bites, Issue 6: Ashlyn Whalen (she/her)

ABOUT OUR AUTHOR:

Ashlyn Whalen is a Psychology major in her final semester at UPG. She is a nontraditional student, and is currently taking her first writing class at UPG after completing the writing requirements at WCCC.

Ashlyn is rather new to poetry and has thus far used real experiences and emotions as groundwork to inspire fictional poems. She hopes that her work will resonate with some who read it, because she believes reading something that reflects an unspoken part of yourself is an incredible feeling that sticks with you.

4 Poems by Ashlyn Whalen

Working Customer Service with Telephonophobia

Ring, ring, ring!

Sweaty palms, feeling nauseous.

Brenden looks to his left, and then his right.

Neat rows of cubicles on either side,

backs of chairs just visible

like disciplined soldiers all lined up

to go to war.

Except for Brenden’s,

for it shakes and trembles:

the one coward among brave warriors.

Ring, ring, ring!

Knuckles white as a corpse,

Brenden grips the edge of his desk,

then looks behind him.

His supervisors chat amiably

in front of a bubbling water cooler,

their sickly-sweet voices,

such a contrast to the tapping keyboards

and low, bored voices of coworkers,

can’t quite disguise the sharp eyes that notice

and scream, “Get back to work!”

Ring, ring, ring!

The chair jumps,

Brenden’s knees clacking together

with his heartbeat pounding between his ears.

Ten A.M., an hour into his shift,

the snake sits poised upon the desk,

silent only for a moment,

and then-

Ring, ring, ring!

Brenden takes a breath:

In.

Out.

He grabs the nightmare and puts it to his ear,

a forced smile in his voice,

“Thank you for calling Customer Service.  This is Brenden, how may I help you today?”

The Good Dreams are the Worst

Do you ever feel like

you’re so delightfully contented

that you just want to kill yourself?

Lying there on your couch,

feeling like the sparkle in your eye,

like the twist of your smile,

like the echo of your laugh.

But looming ahead,

there’s just so much shit to do:

notes to write, hours to work, rooms to clean.

Feed the cat.  Pick up your brother.  Cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

But right now, in this moment,

you’re so delightfully contented.

And wouldn’t it be best to die

when you’re feeling like a sunrise?

And not like a rainstorm?

Besides, you always said,

“Everything will be alright in the end.

If it’s not alright, then it’s not the end.”

And doesn’t that imply

that one should wait

until everything’s alright

to end it all?

Poem for my Mother

You made me this way

with your beer and your cigarettes.

You didn’t even stop when you were pregnant with me,

and they say addiction is hereditary.

So what else was I supposed to do

when the only coping skills you taught me

were smoking and drinking 

my problems away?

You made me this way

when you told me not to complain

about the secondhand smoke in the car.

“You make me feel so guilty!  I guess I’m just a bad mother!”

So what else was I supposed to do

but push down my feelings and needs

at the risk 

of making others feel?

You made me this way

by blaming me for your divorce.

I was a child and who were you

to make me take care of you?

You make me feel so angry.  

I guess I’m just a bad daughter.

So what else am I supposed to do,

but buy another pack of Misty Ultra Lights,

stumbling shakily home,

Budweiser souring my stomach,

and scream, drunkenly,

to the dimly lit, quiet street

that I.

Blame. You.

Damaged Radiance

I believe that the world

and everything in it

and everyone in it

is shit.

is beautiful.

is fucked.

is radiant.